Used
by HDUC
Summary: The Tenth Doctor and Martha Jones have learned about a mind-control implement that might help them deceive and conquer their enemies... or each other. Sexual deception, deceptive sex... it all abounds here.
1. Chapter 1

**Well, I've literally been sitting on, and revising and revising, this story for 4 months. It's been finished, and yet, I've been too skittish to post it.**

 **Why? Well, here's fair warning: this story is dark. And a little bit f***ed up.**

 **So, I have two pieces of advice, as you dive in:**

 **1) Keep an open mind, because,** **if you stick with it** **, you will find that it's not exactly as it seems. It's still dark no matter how you slice it, but the, er,** _ **character dynamics**_ **will change, if you keep reading!** **I have posted both chapters at once** **, so that you don't have a chance to walk away!**

 **2) To get the full effect of the story (and in order not to be confused)** **pay close attention to the sequence of events** **. Notice that it starts on Day 5, and jumps back to Day 1. We will see the events out of order, through to Day 7. Days 3 and 4 we will eventually see from two different angles, from his p.o.v., and then hers.**

 **You won't like the Doctor in this, and you won't like Martha either. But if you like dark fantasies about sex and deception, then proceed!**

* * *

 **PART 1**

DAY 5

"Hiya," Martha Jones chirped as she walked lightly into the TARDIS' console room, as though it were a morning more or less like any other. She had coffee in her hand, a smile on her lovely face, and a freshly-showered look. Her hair was still wet and tied off at the nape of her neck, and there wasn't even a spot of makeup on her face yet.

She was shiny and clean, the night washed away.

She startled the Doctor somewhat when she entered. He had been staring blankly at the computer screen at the console, doing nothing in particular, except stewing in his own thoughts.

"Oh," he said, his hearts skipping a beat each. He searched her quickly for something amiss, something that would indicate that things were not all right as rain. He found nothing immediate, so he asked, "Sleep well?"

"Yeah, like the dead," she told him. "I was exhausted."

He gulped hard. "Good, good."

"Except I've got a kink…" she said, setting her coffee down on the console and rotating her right arm as though trying to work out a knot.

"Sorry to hear that," he remarked, his voice low. If she heard him, she didn't acknowledge.

She leaned against the seat he was occupying and rested her elbow on his shoulder. "What're you doing?"

At her touch, at the feel of her closeness, he felt a frisson, and he jumped a little.

"Tetchy," she commented, withdrawing from him. "Are you all right?"

The fact was, he was not all right; he had not slept a wink.

Because, four hours ago, he had put her back in bed, totally spent, and then come to the console room, and he'd been here since. Four hours ago, he had laid her on her back with her head on her pillow, pulled her night shirt down over her hips, and said, "Go back to sleep, love." When he'd left her room, it was in the unstable hope that in the morning, she wouldn't notice the stickiness between her thighs, or the fact that she had been wearing underpants when she'd gone to bed.

 _What if she asks questions? What if she realises?_ he had asked himself, every minute since closing her bedroom door.

"I'm fine," he told her, lying horribly. He indicated her coffee. "Would you please get me one of those? It smells amazing."

"Sure," she agreed, before bounding away to do what he asked.

He breathed a temporary sigh of relief as she walked away from him, because when she had touched him, it had brought him, internally screaming, through an involuntary sense-memory. Suddenly, he was back there…

He knew exactly why there was a kink in a muscle on the right side of her neck. Because her left elbow had buckled at some point during last night's adventures, and she had had to take the brunt of the pressure of his body with her neck in an awkward bent-sideways position. It hadn't been _so_ bad, had it? After all, she came in that position. Came pretty hard, if he remembered correctly. And he knew it, because she had mumbled his name, and had breathed the words, "Oh, you're making me come," into the back cushion of the armchair where her head was being shoved at one-second intervals. And, he could feel a certain tell-tale pulsing inside of her, a gripping and releasing of his cock, just before he'd let go of himself with a vindicated grunt, and filled her.

He _could_ have stopped fucking her long enough to allow her to replace her hands on the back of the armchair, giving her leverage, but… well, he hadn't. It hadn't suited him to do so, just then.

Before long, she was back in the console room with a second cup of coffee, and she handed it to him with flourish. "Here you go! Colombian. Better than gold."

"Thanks," he said, uneasily, not really wanting it, but sipping anyway.

"No problem," she replied, before taking her spot against the railing, to concentrate on sipping her beverage. She sighed audibly, and even chuckled a bit. "It's kind of shameful how good this makes me feel."

Those words. The sigh. Even just the sound of her voice. Again, he was transported…

…her body pliable but strong, just enough consciousness to make it worthwhile, with the perfect amount of mindless submission. It was an intoxicating combination, for which he now sort of hated himself. "Fuck me harder… harder!" she had demanded. He had delighted in hearing those words. They were mechanical, and yet spoke to a deeply-seated desire, and he had obliged when she'd said them.

And now, in the light of day, he was immersed in personal turmoil, guilt, self-loathing, torn between the need to confess his sins, and cover them up at all costs.

But at the same time, he felt virile, powerful, satisfied and free. He studied her body even now, on the next day in the console room…

 _Gorgeous_ , he thought. _And she has no idea that I've used it for my own pleasure._

Which brought more guilt and more conflict. And also a tormented frisson of pure, brilliant, razor-sharp lust.

Within the next few minutes, the TARDIS expressed a need for a refill of a certain type of coolant, only available in particular sectors of the universe.

"Some of those sectors are dangerous, some of them are cut-and-dry, easy to get the coolant. So… where should we go?" he asked her. He regained a bit of his usual cheek, now he had a goal, something _normal_ in which to engage with her.

"Somewhere dangerous, of course," she said.

He set the coordinates, and moved the TARDIS. When it stopped, he gave her a charming eyebrow tilt and held out his hand to her. She smiled, took it with total confidence in him, and let him lead her onto a planet where anything could happen. She was about to put her life in his hands.

Yes, there was guilt pulling at the pit of his stomach, heavy, like a brick.

But there was also a huge, intoxicating dose of _power_ surging through him just now. And this time, making him feel powerful wasn't the touch of her, or the memory of her naked body begging to be used. It was the oblivion in her eyes, and the trust.

* * *

DAY 1

"Is this really necessary?" the Doctor practically whined, walking briskly down a long corridor in a clergy building on the planet Dimin. He was following a man and a woman, both with sweeping capes and unnaturally quick gaits, and both with large grey heads and proportionally gigantic ears. Martha jogged beside him, trying to keep up. "I mean… this really isn't my M.O."

"We know that, Doctor," the woman replied crisply. "But even a Time Lord can use some new tricks for his satchel. You're going to need _something_ to get the Tesku King under control."

"Yeah, I know," the Doctor muttered.

"The Tesku are not impressed by you," the man said. "They are impervious to transmat, they can escape from the Vortex…"

"…they toxify the air around them and the soil beneath their feet," the Doctor continued, rolling his eyes, because he'd heard it all before. In explaining to them his usual type of problem-solving tactic, they had shot down just about every idea he'd had.

The Tesku King was thirteen feet tall, mean as hell, clever, and stubborn. The Dimin had tried their magic on him at different junctures over the decades, and he could now feel them coming at him, and knew how to deflect.

"It's up to you now, Doctor, Miss Jones," said the woman. "My fellow priests and I have exhausted our welcome with the Tesku King."

"Fine," the Doctor growled. "Let's just get this done."

"What are we getting done, exactly?" asked Martha.

"They're going to show us the magic they use for mind-control," he told her. "Teach us how to use it."

"Whoa. That's pretty serious," she commented.

"It's not mind-control," the man protested. "It's…"

"I know," the Doctor, yet again, interrupted. "Technically, it's called Guaranteeing Performance."

"Oh," Martha said. "So you can make someone do what you want."

"Yes," said the man.

"And you're hoping that if the Doctor or I do it, the Tesku King won't feel it coming and we'll be able to get him reined in."

"Yes," he repeated.

"I don't like this," the Doctor said.

"Do we have a choice?" Martha asked him.

"I suppose not," he admitted.

To save Dimin from the Tesku, they had a plan, and that plan included making the King open a safe containing the secrets to their planets' shared solar channel. The priests of Dimin had tried to open it themselves using their magical skills, but they had been unsuccessful, and of course their attempts to coerce the King had fallen flat.

"How long does this Guaranteeing of Performance thing last?" Martha wondered.

"A few hours," answered the Doctor, with a sigh.

"Okay, but that begs a huge question: what happens when it does wear off?" Martha wondered. "I mean, won't there be retribution one way or the other?"

"The type of ritual we are going to show you is very basic, but it includes an amnesiac after-effect," the woman told her.

The man and woman priests led them inside a round room. It had mostly white walls with some wooden pillar accents. In the middle of the room, there was a waist-high platform.

"Necessary for the ritual is the Crux Herb," the man said, and he gestured to the platform, a surface the size of a dining-room table. On it, there was a bowl filled with leaves that looked, to Martha's Earth eye, like common Canadian maple leaves. Except, they were dried out.

The Doctor stood scowling with his hands in his pockets and his feet apart, but he was paying attention.

"It's a smart herb," said the woman.

"What does that mean?" Martha asked.

"It means that it knows whom to affect and whom not to. That is to say, it is intoxicating, but not to the person who lights it," she replied. "At least for the purposes of this ritual."

"So it will put your victim under hypnosis, but not you," the Doctor said, gravely, mistrusting.

"If you like," the woman said. "Allow us to demonstrate. My colleague will be the subject of the ritual, and I shall administer it. Would the two of you mind going behind that glass partition?"

They obliged. Martha was glad to be behind glass, and out of the way of the whole business.

The priests were now about twenty yards away, and the woman called out, "First I am going to do a quick spell to put my colleague to sleep, as the ritual is best performed on someone who is unconscious." With that, she did some sort of hand gesture and incantation that seemed to make the male priest fall dead asleep.

"He slumbers," she announced. "And now the ritual can begin."

When the woman priest was satisfied that her subject was unconscious, she gestured to the side of the room, and a third priest brought her a burning torch. She used it to light the leaves in the bowl, and smoke began to fill the air. Martha now understood why she and the Doctor needed to be behind the partition.

The female priest then turned to the glass barrier and addressed her audience.

"As the room fills with the smoke of the Crux Herb, I will now make _suggestion_ a part of what he is inhaling," she said. "And as it mixes with the herb, it becomes a command, with amnesiac consequences."

She turned to her subject and said, "You have a desperate desire for water. Voracious, single-minded, at all costs." Her voice was grandiose, breathy, spiriting.

She picked up something that looked like an ordinary walking stick and stirred it in the air, as though she were mixing her words with the wafting smoke.

And then they waited.

After about two minutes, the man priest seemed to wake. He stood up, and with a slightly mechanical lilt, he said, "I've got to have water!" and he began walking toward the exit. The woman motioned for the Doctor and Martha to follow.

For the next ten minutes, they followed him through corridors, while he desperately searched for water, in a single-minded quest. When he finally came upon the complex's kitchen, he shoved several people out of the way to get to the sink. He turned on the tap and then put his whole head underneath it, soaking his robes, his face, and making those around him mutter askance.

After a minute or two watching him gulp water and almost drown himself, two men pulled him away from the sink and subdued him. The woman priest called in some reinforcements, and the man was taken away and watched until he fell asleep an hour later. At that point, the woman priest, Martha, and the still-scowling Doctor went and sat in a lounge, waiting for the male priest to wake.

They drank a tea-like beverage and discussed what they had seen and invoked. After that, they decided to take a meal of several courses, and play a time-consuming card game, as they waited for the male priest to come to.

And surely enough, after about four hours, he darkened the doorway of the dining area and said, "Here I am."

"Hello," said the woman.

"Let me guess," the Doctor sighed. "You have no memory of what happened after you fell asleep."

"None whatsoever," said the man. "Though, my clothes are damp, as are my bedsheets, so I'm guessing… something with water?" He laughed with whimsy.

The woman recounted to him what he had done. Then of the Doctor she asked, "Are you having doubts, Doctor?"

"No, no doubts," he said. "I believe that he doesn't remember a thing. I just think this ritual, and that herb, are incredibly dangerous."

"Well, you're not wrong, Doctor," said the woman priest. "Thank goodness it's in the right hands."

* * *

DAY 3

When the TARDIS dematerialised from the planet Dimin, two days later, it was with a cache of the Crux Herb that the priests had used in the ritual. It was true, the herb had been instrumental in dispatching the Tesku King, yet the Doctor was still reluctant to take it on-board.

"It's all right," Martha had said to the same priest who had been the subject of the demonstration ritual they had witnessed. She took from him the sack he was holding. "We'll take it, and we'll say _thank you._ "

The bag was the size of a large pillow, and Martha stood with her arms around it, trying not to crush the dried-out leaves inside. She nudged the Doctor for his rudeness in refusing the gift, as the priest had seemed somewhat offended.

When she took it off his hands, though, he smiled. "We just happen to think that the two of you might find it useful someday."

"Indeed we might," Martha commented.

The Doctor reluctantly thanked the priest, they closed the TARDIS' door, and he set coordinates for a new destination.

She deposited the bag at the foot of the passenger's seat, then held on as the vessel jostled them on to someplace new. She eyed it sideways, and remarked a few leaves spilling out through a gap in a haphazardly-stapled corner. Not for the first time, Martha noticed the resemblance between the Crux Herb and an ordinary Earth-based plant.

"Is it just me, or does that stuff look exactly like dried-up maple leaves?"

The Doctor held onto the controls, but looked down to examine the bag. "It's not just you."

"Hunh. A cousin species, perhaps?"

"Cousin species," he chuckled. "One of them has wicked powerful hypnotic and suggestive properties. The other makes syrup. But not really."

"So… no?"

"Nah," he told her. "Just a coincidence."

They spent that day exploring a resort mountain town on the planet Brewsdoon. Private walks in secluded hanging flower gardens, exquisite food, and an idyllic natural hot spring. They retired from swimming that night, neither of them mentioning that the Crux Herb was still in its bag, on the console room floor. The Doctor, however, made a mental note to put the blasted thing into storage, first thing in the morning.

That night, he lay down innocently, but in sleep, the Doctor dreamt.

Of her. Of Martha Jones, his trusted companion, his best friend… one of the cleverest human beings he had ever met.

And also, one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

He rarely ever allowed himself to indulge this thought when he was awake – his soul was too damaged, his losses to recent, his needs too profound and too dark. _That way lies disaster_ , he had unconsciously told himself, every time he found himself thinking of Martha…

…the way she looked at him, the way she moved, the way her spine curved out and became her bum, and how lovely it might feel just to lay his hand at the small of her back.

This much articulate _thought_ rarely ever manifested within the Doctor's mind because he treated thoughts of her like a hot stove. One doesn't have to tell oneself, "That's hot, and will burn you – stay away." Rather, one simply stays away.

But then there was that lovely day together on Brewsdoon. Innocuous though it may have seemed at the time, the experience changed him.

He dreamt of a mountain resort town – and her. In private walks, under miles and miles of arching flowers, holding her hand, hearing the things she would never, ever say in real life… that she loved him, longed for him. That she wanted to be admired by him, loved, touched, kissed, licked, undressed, ravaged, _used_ …

He was with her, in the Brewsdoon bistro where they'd had dinner, enjoying exquisite foods off her fingers, and she lapping at his fingers. Her tongue searched the sides of her mouth for the sticky syrup that had dribbled from whatever it was he'd fed her.

And then she was swimming toward him in the hot spring, first in her purple bathing suit, and then nude, twisting in the water like a catfish, like a mermaid. He chased after her in the salty water, burning his eyes, but it was worth it. Because when he caught her, he could do with her as he...

That was when he woke with a start. And a raging erection.

Something came over him. Something a bit mad. Voracious, ferocious, desirous.

In his entire, long, long life, he could not remember ever feeling this way before. He'd known _craving,_ sure, for chocolate or wine or even for companionship. He'd known different types of intensity – lust, anger, despair. But he'd never known _quite this_ combination.

He had to have her. And it had to be soon. There was no time for wooing, or any of that other rubbish…

… and from that moment, the Doctor was off the rails.

* * *

DAY 4

The day ensued with the Doctor just barely able to concentrate on basic things like language, eating and walking. She was all he could see, all he could think about; she filled his senses. Her obliviousness only made it sweeter – she chirped like always, spoke with wonder about time and space like always, flirted like a teenaged girl, like always.

Numerous times, he tried to talk himself out of his thoughts, but the possibilities overwhelmed him. The beauty, the satisfaction… _the power._ Every time he looked at the bag of Crux Herb on the floor, his pulse quickened.

Finally, when she wasn't looking, he hit a button on the console that made an alarm sound.

"What's that?" she asked.

"A distress call," he lied, squinting at the screen.

And so, he contrived to "answer" the false call from an invented psychic Native American tribe, in rural Alaska in the autumn of… some year. The year was, after all, not important. It was the _time of year_ that mattered, a time when dried maple leaves would be abundant and brown, all over the floor of the forest.

"I'm not sure where their camp is, but it's near," he said, stepping out of the TARDIS with her, into the brisk Alaska air. "Let's go separate directions, and see if we can locate their signal."

He went on to describe a bogus "fire sign" that would certainly not appear in the sky as a beacon, and instructed Martha to walk for fifteen minutes in one direction, then turn back, and he would do the same.

Once she was out of sight, he gathered as many dried maple leaves as he could hold in his arms, and hauled them into the TARDIS. Earlier that day, he had cleared room in a trunk in a storage area to be the new home of the stash of Crux Herb. He took the sack and dumped the herb into the trunk, refilling the sack with ordinary maple leaves. He then replaced it against the foot of the seat in the console room, including with a few sticking out the corner, the way Martha had last seen it lying there.

 _The Doctor hates that stuff_ , she would think, if she glanced at it. _He was reluctant even to have it in the TARDIS at all. He thinks the power of suggestion it's capable of incurring is far too dangerous…_

From that moment, until he crept down the hall into her bedroom that night, equipped with a bowl of Crux Herb in his hands and a mixture of self-hatred and pure lust invading his body, it was all he could do to keep from exploding.

* * *

DAY 6

And two nights later, for the third night in a row, though every "morning after" brought conflict, guilt and self-loathing, he lay in bed, waiting for his moment.

He said a calming Gallifreyan mantra that he'd used when he was an adolescent, designed to quell lustful thoughts. Without it, he wouldn't be able to keep his erection at bay, and from there, he wouldn't be able to hold himself in check long enough to enjoy the evening's secret delights.

After ninety minutes of this he climbed out of bed. He padded past Martha's bedroom door and into the storage room that housed the trunk full of the Crux Herb. There, he found the large bowl he had stowed with it, as well as the necessary incendiary device. He also located the tree branch he'd been using for mixing words with smoke. He filled the bowl, then took all of the supplies into Martha's room.

Softly, so as not to arouse her suspicion, just in case she hadn't yet fallen asleep, he said, "Martha, are you awake?"

But she said nothing. He heard her breathing, snoring very softly, and was convinced that, like on the two previous nights, she was sleeping soundly.

He lit the Herb in the bowl and let the room fill with smoke, marvelling at the how the Herb was "smart," and would affect only the _subject_ of the ritual, and not the administrator.

He began to chant in the way the priests of Dimin had taught him. He then fixed his eyes on her, gritted his teeth so as to steady himself and his body, and he said something very like the words that had worked so well the last two nights.

"You want sex – madly and immediately," he growled. Slowly, panting, he continued, "You are insatiable, and you want to be _obedient_ , to be treated roughly, and to be _used_ by only me. My _total_ satisfaction is your deepest, darkest, most burning craving. You hunger for my pleasure, because it brings absolutely unhinged, explosive pleasure to you."

He "stirred" the words into the inhalant, and waited a few moments for the message to penetrate her. He turned, and began to pace slowly around the room.

After a couple of minutes, a soft light switched on and he heard, "Doctor."

He stopped and looked. She was sitting up in bed, the lamp at her bedside illuminated, her eyes fixed on him, her lips slack. In that moment, all control left him, and his cock sprang to complete attention.

She threw the covers off and swung her legs off the bed and stood up. He watched, titillated, as she crossed the room. She wore a black camisole and tight red shorts, which was different from the previous two nights' oversized tee-shirt.

Uncertainty seized him momentarily. Any difference in the routine made him nervous, made him wonder _why? What is she adapting to? Compensating for?_

But it didn't matter. Lust was in the driver's seat now.

She was bearing just a hint of midriff, a hell of a lot of thigh, and her nipples were taut, straining hard against the fabric. She was _hot_ and ripe for it, panting already, blood pumping, teeming with desire – and so was he.

She reached him in the middle of the room and stopped. He lurched forward and grabbed her, kissing her hard, plunging his tongue into her willing mouth. She sucked at it dutifully, and even wrapped one hand around his head, tugging just-so at his hair, so as to make him moan. He, in turn, buried a hand in her hair and pulled. He tugged her head to the side, pulling her lips away from his and exposing her neck. He licked her salty skin and listened to her breath become laboured, then whispered, "On your knees."

She obeyed without comment. She wasted no time tugging his pyjama bottoms to mid-thigh, and when his cock sprung up in her face, she grasped it and engulfed it in her mouth. He moaned at the sensation and momentarily lost focus. She sucked as though starving for it; willingly, deeply, wetly, noisily. With her whole mouth. She moaned, creating a bit of vibration.

In coming here, in thinking the last two days about her, conjuring memories of himself buried inside of her squirming body, auditory recall of her begging to be taken harder and harder… his anticipation had been wicked. He'd been almost literally _talking_ his erection into submission for most of the day, so he could see that this go-round wasn't going to last long. But that was all right. There was still plenty of time, plenty to do.

And so, he threw caution to the wind.

He grasped her head with both hands and shoved, watching his cock completely disappear between her lips. She gagged the first time, but she quickly acclimated. He fucked her mouth, and she took it like a champion.

He couldn't help himself, and moaned, "Oh, yes, take it all," as he enjoyed her oral cavity, jerking his hips back and forth like a man possessed.

"Mmmm," she moaned, her eyes practically rolling back in her head. She moaned again and again, and begged him with her eyes, when they weren't watering, and when she was capable of keeping them open. "Mmm… mmmmmm!" Over and over, she moaned, as he forced the head of his cock down her throat, and hissed at her, groaned at her, avidly watched his pleasure become her pleasure.

Two minutes was all it took. The Doctor heaved, "I'm close, Martha, so close to coming! What if I shoot it down your throat? You'd bloody _love_ that, wouldn't you?" His tone became biting, cutting, and he almost couldn't believe, at this moment, the frenetic, desperate, absurd nature of what he was saying and doing, but… damn it, that was part of the package. The wantonness of it, the immorality…

And she replied "Mmmm!" with her mouth full, her voice tinged with blind enthusiasm. Her hands clawed at the backs of his thighs, her fingernails digging into his flesh.

He grasped the back of her neck and came in her mouth. It was a tight, explosive spurt, with an uninhibited cry of nothing in particular. This was followed by the command, "Swallow it. All of it." She may have gagged, but he didn't notice. Then he let go of her head and pumped out the last few drops onto her tongue with his own hand.

After regaining some focus, he stepped out of the pyjama bottoms and tossed them aside, then began to pull at the hem of his tee-shirt. She remained on her knees, her breasts heaving, saliva dripping down her chin, waiting expectantly.

He threw off the last of his clothing, took her by the hands and helped her stand up. He guided her to a half-seated/half-standing position with her bum against the footboard of her bed. He took a few steps back to admire her. He could see that considerable moisture had gathered between her legs and was soaking through her shorts. He made no secret of the fact that this pleased him, and he let his eyes rest there.

"Nice and wet," he mused.

"Yes," she whimpered.

"Good girl. That's what I like to see. Go ahead, get yourself off. I'll just watch."

She took a deep breath and wasted no time sliding her hand down inside her shorts, straight to the sopping-wet centre. Once again, she moaned, and the Doctor looked up at her face. Her eyes were glazed over, though she was still staring straight at him, biting her bottom lip, her fingers moving smoothly in circles, then in and out, all inside the crotch of her soaked red shorts.

The Doctor moved forward, bent and yanked the shorts down to her ankles, and she kicked them off the rest of the way. Now, her swollen pink mound could be seen, her fingers firmly lodged between the lips, shiny, slick juices covering every soft, hot surface.

"Oh, oh God," she groaned as her index and middle finger completely disappeared inside of her. She sat up on the footboard, leaned back on her other hand, pulled her heels up onto the bedframe, spread her knees far apart, and fingered herself until she screamed.

The Doctor watched her come in a gush, and by now, his cock was at full attention again, but he was in a better position to make it last now. He smiled wickedly at her.

"That was brilliant, dear," he said. "Now do it again."

She began to rub her clit with two fingers with a low whine, biting her lip squeezing her eyes tight for a few moments. He marvelled, once more, at how ludicrous this whole thing was. The amount of power he had was unreasonable and wrong, but God, she was exquisite like this. _Filthy_ and exquisite. And addictive. How would he ever tear himself away from this? Why should he ever try?

He allowed himself to stroke his cock for only about ten seconds as he watched her, before he forced himself to stop, savour the moment.

After a few minutes, the Doctor asked, "Do you ever just fuck yourself silly, Martha?"

"Mm-hm," she moaned in assent.

"With what?" he asked. "Show me."

She stood up and walked compliantly to the wardrobe beside the bed, opened it, reached up onto the top shelf and brought down a shoebox. She opened it, and inside was a twelve-inch-long, pink, torpedo-shaped sex toy.

She perched on the end of the bed once more, spread her legs dutifully, and aimed the torpedo at her swollen, gaping lips. The Doctor held his breath as he watched it disappear inside of her. Straight away, she pulled it halfway out, and then pushed it back in. She did it again, and again at a medium pace, moaning each time the thing got all the way into her. With each stroke it went further and further, and the Doctor watched, practically drooling, shaking with the strain of holding back.

And just when he thought he might fall completely to pieces, "Stand up," he commanded.

Trembling, eyes pleading, she obliged.

"Put your foot there," he told her, indicating a spot on the footboard.

Again, she obliged.

He moved forward, took the toy out of her hand and took her quite off-balance by kissing her. With a kind of languid passion, he played at her lips with his tongue, teased at her tongue as well. He sucked at her mouth and delighted as she fell into it. He kissed her well and truly as he slid the toy down her clit and shoved it inside of her.

She cried out with surprise, and he smirked roguishly as he pulled it almost all the way out, before shoving it back in again. He entwined the fingers of his left hand slowly into her hair, and pulled back, tipping her face up to meet his gaze.

And without warning, he began ramming the tool in and out hard and fast. He held his grasp on her hair, and was reminded of one of his favourite bits about this whole business: he could watch her face, and memorize the pain, pleasure, stupefaction and chaos in her eyes as she got fucked. Without worrying about his own concentration, he could greedily take in the expressions that signified total abandon on her face. He stared at her with his jaw clenched, teeth grinding, watching as the sensations completely overtook her: being rammed detachedly with a plastic toy, twice as hard as she could ever ram herself, being jabbed in just the right spot, over and over... spread open for him and his whim, being held in place by her hair…

"Oh God, oh God," she repeated under her breath. "That's so good… so good. Fuck me, fuck me…" The words delighted him, of course, but there was nevertheless a slightly mechanical tinge to them.

Eventually, he let go of her hair and lent his thumb to the cause, pressing it against her clit as he continued his work with the toy. She quaked so hard, he wondered if she could stay standing, and indeed, when she came this time, she lost the strength in her knees. She fell back on the bed, but he didn't stop. He lay down next to her, and she gave high squeals as he rammed the thing into her repeatedly, sometimes varying the pace... She squirmed, panted, said filthy things, and eventually, came again. Then again. He wondered, not for the first time, how many times she could get off before she just went limp and couldn't go anymore, and would have liked to resolve to find out...

Except, he had almost no patience left himself, because watching her writhe was just too much – in the best, most shuddering, intense way imaginable. He could see things escalating in his mind, a sweat-soaked mounting of what _pleasure_ meant to him. He could imagine upping the ante every night, and becoming more and more dependent and needy, and requiring more and more outrageous acts to satisfy himself.

Because something about this act was even more depraved than the previous two nights when he had actually fucked her himself. Something about watching her so completely abandoned because of a piece plastic, watching her writhing, whimpering, totally helpless to an onslaught of orgasms... it was profane and idyllically beautiful, all at once.

So much so that he couldn't take it anymore.

He withdrew the torpedo toy and threw it on the bed, inciting a beg of "No, please don't stop!" from her. He rolled on top of her, took her hands and pinned them to the bed beside her shoulders. She looked at him with surprise, but seemed to unconsciously slur the word, "Yes." He pried her legs even further apart with his knee, then plunged his twitching cock into her.

For perhaps a minute, he used her, held her down, pushed and grunted. At some point in that minute, she came, yet again. Her spasms milked his orgasm out of him, and he emptied into her, seeing stars, cursing, vibrating from head to toe.

Spent, he let his head loll forward, burying his lips against her neck, and gave her soft kisses as he recovered.

At last, he withdrew from her, kissed her on the forehead, then moved round to turn off the bedside lamp. He couldn't quite face her in the light, now that it was all over.

He talked to her softly, reassuringly, went to the top drawer in the bottom section of the wardrobe and found a new pair of shorts. He helped her sit up and worm her way into them, then put her back in bed. He took the torpedo toy, put it into the shoebox and prepared to take it with him, clean it properly, then he planned to replace it during the following day while Martha was in the shower or something.

He lulled her to sleep, once again hoping against hope that she would not notice the new pair of shorts, nor have any memories of what they (he) had done.

In the moment when he shut her bedroom door softly behind him, he loathed himself, and vowed _never_ to use the Crux Herb again – for _any_ reason.

All the while, of course, knowing that he was kidding himself.

* * *

DAY 7

"Good morning," she said, walking carefully into the console room, a mug in each hand. She handed him one of them. "I brought you one too, since the last two mornings, you've sent me back again."

"Thanks," he said flatly, and stared hard at the computer screen.

For the third morning in a row, he was a coiled spring, a bundle of nerves, riddled with guilt and doubt… but still, her presence, even now, was practically intoxicating.

And, he noticed, she hadn't showered yet. This made him nervous, but he felt a surge of that shameful power again. Last night was still _on her_. Not just his handprints and bodily fluids, but the air and mood in the room when they'd done what they'd done. She hadn't washed it away.

He fancied he could smell it on her, but he knew it was just his libido doing the thinking again.

He tried to invent another reason to send her away, but he reckoned if he did that, she'd be onto him somehow. So, he remained silent, and sipped his coffee. She leaned near him and did the same.

"Sleep well?" he couldn't help but ask.

"As always," she answered. "Adventures with you really take it out of me, I guess."

"I guess."

Once again, she leaned one elbow on his shoulder as she inspected the screen. He turned his head to look at her, and she was startlingly close. She didn't flinch – only smiled expectantly, cheerfully, waiting for an answer.

The oblivion within her was only growing, as was her trust in him. He wondered if the Herb was doing any long-term damage, and/or whether memories of what he was doing with her were stored in there somewhere, burning through, perhaps even threatening to burst and show themselves someday. How long could this continue, exactly?

He knew the answer: it couldn't. He should stop. Completely, immediately. He should confess, beg and grovel for her forgiveness, and work to make things right for her.

"Martha?" he said.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting to say next, or even what he _wanted_ to say next.

"Yep?" she asked, brightly, sipping her coffee.

"Nothing," he sighed.

"Budge over," she said, bumping her hip against him.

He tingled a bit when she did this, and moved over six inches, so that she could sit. It was impossible for any two adults to sit on that stool together without touching, so next, he felt most of the left side of her body pressed against most of the right side of his. With total boldness, no trepidation…

…with warmth. God, she was warm. And alive. And… _trusting._ She could press her body against him and not feel the contact at all, because it was innocent to her. Quotidian.

Yet she was lighting a fire inside him. Sparks so bright, they were blinding. And her total confidence within the fold, here in the TARDIS, made it burn all the brighter. In a little while, she would take his hand, follow him into adventure, trust him with her life, and his baser urges and his _conscience_ should be impeded by this.

But they were not. Somehow he'd got over it so he could have her…

…and now, he had to strain not to become visibly aroused.

Thankfully, she asked a question to distract him. "So, what're you working on?"

"Actually, I'm just going through some old journalistic archives," he said truthfully, pointing at the Gallifreyan text on the screen. It was something he'd begun doing because it was mundane and doable in the throes of a self-loathing depression, but he'd eventually found that he had something like four billion files he didn't need, and reckoned that this task was actually _worth_ undertaking. "I'm dumping what's not required, to make room for… well, other things."

"Wish I could help."

"Maybe you can," he said. "Do you want to learn the number system?"

"Seriously?"

"Sure," he said. "It's fairly easy – works on base-sixteen."

"That sounds like a challenge."

"You're up to it."

"Okay then," she said, a bit less enthusiastically than he would have liked. "Just let me shower first. If I'm going to work my brain… I'm going to need to feel refreshed."

"You don't have to. I'll just do it myself, it's fine."

"No, I want to help."

"We could just set the coordinates on _random_ and go somewhere unknown instead, and have a proper adventure."

"Don't patronise me," she scolded, smacking him on the shoulder with the back of her hand. She started for the corridor. "I'll help you out. Of course I will. If it's really helping."

"It is. I just don't want to force you, if you're not into it," he said, absently. He was now busy organising data into a file, getting ready for her participation. He was grateful to have something to focus on, and not particularly paying attention to what he was saying.

These words stopped her in her tracks in the archway to the corridor. She turned, looked at him with a scepitcal, sardonic smile, and said, "Oh no, wouldn't want that. Now that would be _very very_ wrong, indeed." Her voice dripped with sarcasm, but he missed them.

Then she chuckled and disappeared down the hall.

* * *

 **Part 2 follows immediately!**

 **But take a quick moment to leave me a review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay. *Deep breath,* here is part 2!**

 **In case you get confused about the sequence of events, here's a recap of part 1.**

 **Day 1: The Doctor and Martha learn about an herb that can be used in a ritual to make someone mindlessly do your bidding, without any knowledge, after the fact, that they've done it. Our "heroes" are supposed to use it to save a planet from a harsh enemy.**

 **Day 3: They leave said planet, with a bag full of the herb given to them as thanks from those whom they saved. They leave it on the floor of the console room. To relax, they go to Brewsdoon and enjoy some gardens, dinner, and a hot spring. That night, the Doctor dreams of chasing Martha naked through the hot spring, and wakes with a ferocious desire for her – an ugly, burning, urgent craving he's never experienced before. From this point on, he's practically vibrating with lust.**

 **Day 4: He creates a ruse and takes her to Alaska, so he can stash the herb in a secret place, and fill the bag on the console room floor with maple leaves, which look identical. He is highly anticipatory of tonight, the implication being that he will use the** _ **real,**_ **stashed-away herb to make Martha mindlessly have sex with him, with no memory of it later.**

 **Day 5: We see the Doctor feeling immense guilt for what he did to her the night before. However, he is also intoxicated by the power. And, he finds that he is inflamed because of the trust in her eyes. It is implied that he will do it again tonight.**

 **Day 6: He performs the ritual for the third night in a row. We witness him, performing sexual acts with her, while she's under the herb's hypnosis. This is with her enthusiastic cooperation, though he knows she's only acting because of coercion from the herb and the ritual.**

 **Day 7: For the third morning in a row, Martha comes to the console room, chirpy, happy, oblivious. Guilt is eating at him, but he is becoming addicted… to her, to the sex, to the power – all of it. But, he gets involved in thinking about something else, and says to her, without thinking, that he doesn't want to force her into doing anything she doesn't want to do. She gives a sarcastic answer, a hint that** _ **she might know...**_

 **Notice that the only day we have not yet seen is Day 2. Ah, but here we go...**

* * *

 **PART 2**

DAY 2

Martha was injured. Not grievously, but it was a knock to the noggin hard enough that the Doctor had come over all cautious and protective and pig-headed, and insisted that she return to the Dimin priests' headquarters, not too long after the fight with the Tesku King had begun.

Truth be told, she was sufficiently rattled by the blow that it didn't take much for her to agree to lay low for the day.

She accepted some sort of tincture for pain, at the Doctor's recommendation, and then took a kip. By late afternoon, she woke, feeling more or less normal, satisfied she didn't have concussion, and began to wander the grounds to get some fresh air. In the garden cloister, came upon the same female priest who had showed her and the Doctor how to use the Crux Herb (which the Doctor was now doing, in order to beat the Tesku King, in spite of his seeming hatred of the Herb's prowess).

"Hello there," the priest said, walking past a trellis covered with yellow flowers.

"Hi," Martha replied. "Fancy meeting you here. Glad to see you're not out there fighting the war."

"Thank goodness, I'm too high-ranking for that now," she told Martha. "But I've done my share, when I was younger."

Martha shifted awkwardly. "Well, it's a lovely day."

"It is. What are you up to?"

"Well, the Doctor benched me, so…"

"Benched you?"

"Yeah, it means he took me out of the game," she said. "Made me come back here and wait for him, since I was 'injured'."

"Did you _want_ to be benched?" asked the priest.

"Not particularly, but the Doctor is stubborn, and he was in mid-battle. I was afraid that if I argued anymore, he'd get himself, or someone else, killed trying to convince me. I bowed out for the greater good. Also, I scared myself a little bit, so reckoned I should, you know..."

"Ah. Wise," the priest said with a smile.

"So, now I'm just exploring. I suppose… looking for someone to talk to. And look, here you are. Though, if you have someplace to be…"

"I do," said the priest. "But perhaps you'd like to join me. A colleague and I are doing another demonstration."

"Oh, more magic?"

"Suggestion and Guaranteeing of Performance via the Crux Herb, yes. It's a slightly more… _advanced_ ritual than the one you and the Doctor saw. It's still not too terribly complicated, though. Care to watch?"

"Lead on," Martha said, and she followed the priest into the building, and down several corridors. She began to recognise the route as the same one they had taken the day before, when she and the Doctor had seen the initial demonstration.

And indeed, they arrived at the very same room. Gathered there was a group of what looked like four novice priests, and the female priest explained that they had begun to learn the ways of the Crux Herb, and today were seeing their first demonstration of this particular ritual.

A male priest whom Martha had never seen before came through a door opposite, and Martha and the students were instructed to stand behind the observation glass, so as not to be affected by the smoke.

As before, the man lay down, and there was a quick "sleep spell" performed, so as to put him out. When he was slumbering peacefully, the woman lit up the Herb, and began to chant. This time, she also lit a second fire. The priest did not mention what sort of substance was burning there, so Martha reckoned it didn't matter. However, as part of the incantation, she specifically designated the fire as _Light of Recall._

Next, she turned toward the man, and said, "You are terrified of all things that are blue. You will do anything, short of harming another, to avoid it. But you cannot contain your frightened screams…"

And so it went. When the man woke, the woman greeted him, and dismissed him from the room but as he left, he glanced to his right and spied two novices standing there, wearing blue, and chaos ensued.

"Dear me, I'm terrified of blue!" he cried out, hiding behind the female priest, trembling.

"Yes," she said.

" _Light of Recall,_ " Martha said to herself.

The female priest turned to the novices watching, and to Martha, and said, "You see, in the primitive ritual, the subject remembers nothing about what he or she has done while under the influence. With _Light of Recall,_ however, he or she is fully conscious of him or herself while under the influence, and remembers the occurrences later. So, when the effects of the ritual wear off, he will remember that he was afraid of blue, but will no longer be afraid."

"When do the effects wear off?" asked one of the novices, posing his pen over his paper, waiting to jot down the answer.

"A few days," said the priest.

"Why are the effects of this ritual so much longer than that of the one I saw yesterday?" asked Martha, before she could stop herself.

"We're not sure," said the priest. "We think it's something to do with the recall effect - its effect upon the brain is not quite as violent, therefore, it is sustainable. Obviously more research is needed."

"Are there any long-term effects?" she asked. Leave it to the medical student.

"Almost none, with the _Light of Recall_ ritual."

"Couldn't help noticing," said one of the novices. "He didn't know he was going to be afraid of blue, when he first woke up. So, he doesn't remember the suggestion itself."

"Right, well," said the priest. "He's completely under, when the suggestion occurs. As far as he's concerned, there _was_ no suggestion. Just the _feeling_ conjured by the suggestion."

"Blimey, this is dangerous," Martha muttered.

"Indeed," answered the priest.

* * *

DAY 3

When the TARDIS dematerialised from the planet Dimin, two days later, it was with a cache of the Crux Herb that the priests had used in the ritual. It was true, the herb had been instrumental in dispatching the Tesku King, yet the Doctor was still reluctant to take it on-board.

Martha, however, felt very differently.

"It's all right," Martha had said to the same priest who had been the subject of the demonstration ritual they had witnessed. She took from him the sack he was holding. "We'll take it, and we'll say _thank you._ "

The priest who gave it to them said, "We just happen to think that the two of you might find it useful someday."

"Indeed we might," Martha commented.

The Doctor reluctantly thanked the priest, they closed the TARDIS' door, and he set coordinates for a new destination.

She deposited the bag at the foot of the passenger's seat, then held on as the vessel jostled them on to someplace new. She eyed it sideways, and remarked a few leaves spilling out through a gap in a haphazardly-stapled corner. Not for the first time, Martha noticed the resemblance between the Crux Herb and an ordinary Earth-based plant.

"Is it just me, or does that stuff look exactly like dried-up maple leaves?"

The Doctor held onto the controls, but looked down to examine the bag. "It's not just you."

"Hunh. A cousin species, perhaps?"

"Cousin species," he chuckled. "One of them has wicked powerful hypnotic and suggestive properties. The other makes syrup. But not really."

"So… no?"

"Nah," he told her. "Just a coincidence."

They spent that day exploring a resort mountain town on the planet Brewsdoon. Private walks in secluded hanging flower gardens, exquisite food and an idyllic natural hot spring.

As Martha floated on her back and stared up at the sky, she noticed that the planet Brewsdoon seemed to have something resembling maple trees. They arched over the spring and fluttered in the gentle wind, and Martha stared, examining them.

"Wow," she couldn't help but say aloud.

"What?" he asked, leaning on the side of the spring, head back, eyes closed.

"Nothing," she said."

They retired from swimming that night, neither of them mentioning that the Crux Herb was still in its bag, on the console room floor.

"Blimey, we haven't eaten," he commented.

"Yeah, you're right," she said. "I'm feeling rather peckish, now you mention it."

"Want to go back into the village and find something to eat?"

With the wide-eyed, inquisitive look he gave her, and this most innocent of suggestions, something within her snapped. Turned over. Became voracious and calculating.

And she saw an opportunity.

"Do you mind if I just stay and freshen up?" she asked. "Maybe I can catch up with you?"

"Okay," he said. "I'll, er… text you, and let you know what I find."

"Sounds good, thanks," she said, feigning exhaustion, and waving him out the door.

She ran to her room and grabbed a pillowcase, then waited a minute or two until the Doctor was definitely out of sight of the TARDIS, and of earshot. She snuck outside, back in the direction of the hot spring, where she knew she had definitely seen maple trees, or something that looked an awful lot like them.

About a hundred feet from the edge of the spring, a thick patch of the tree revealed itself, and she set about gathering as much of it as she could, from the ground below, where the leaves had fallen and dried. She gathered, until the pillow case was full.

On her way back to the TARDIS, she received a text. "Bistro on the western edge of town – a yellow building. We passed it on the way to the garden. Meet me, when you're finished freshening up."

She took the bag of _real_ Crux Herb to her room, and hid it in the very back of her closet, behind a loose wall panel. In her first month or so in the TARDIS, she'd discovered it, and made a mental note of it, in the unlikely event of having to hide something from the Doctor.

She dumped the herb into the pillow case before stashing it, then filled the original bag with maple leaves. This, she brought back to the console room and left it on the floor, where the Doctor had last seen the Crux Herb, and looked at it with disdain. She then took a metal salad bowl and a long-handled wooden serving spoon from the kitchen and hid it away in her bedroom.

After that, she very quickly changed into a slightly nicer outfit, pulled her hair back, and put on a spot of makeup. She set out to meet the Doctor, and have a leisurely, innocent dinner.

That night, she lay down, and waited exactly ninety minutes, having no idea how long a Time Lord would take to fall asleep. With butterflies in her stomach, she gathered some of the Crux Herb out of her closet in a bowl, grabbed the wooden spoon, a candle, a lighter, and tiptoed out of her room.

She waited outside the Doctor's bedroom for a few minutes, waiting to hear indicators that he was either awake, or not. After nothing but silence came forth for a long while, she dared to open the door a crack. All she heard then was very steady breathing. This relaxed her – it sounded like the measured breathing of deep sleep.

Keeping one eye on the Doctor's prone form, she silently shut the door behind her, and crouched on the floor beside the bed. She lit the Crux Herb and waited for the smoke to fill the room, shaking with nervousness, terrified he'd wake up before the smoke would have the chance to do its work.

In those couple of minutes, she also contemplated the possibility that Time Lords were not susceptible to the effects of the Crux Herb… but if it didn't work, it didn't work. The real fear was that he would catch her in mid-ritual…

But he did not catch her.

Satisfied that the air in the bedroom was sufficiently filled with the Crux Herb's smoke, she lit the candle. Her incantation began with designating the candle, _Light of Recall._

And then she began to address the Doctor, as she "stirred" her words in with the smoke, using the long-handled spoon.

"Martha Jones," she said. "Me. Senses filled. Desire awakened."

Thinking over her next words, she gave those ideas time to incubate.

Then, she continued. "Any attraction or lust, suppressed or lying dormant, will now come to the surface. You'll acknowledge it in its full, beautiful, and frightening glory, and… perhaps you'll attribute it to the sojourn on Brewsdoon. To those private walks, under miles and miles of arching flowers, holding hands, whispering… whispering… whispering…"

She still trembled with trepidation. This was _so_ wrong, but she couldn't stop herself.

She gathered her strength, knelt at his bedside, and whispered, "I love you. I long for you. I want to be admired by you, as well as loved." She closed her eyes and let her words tumble out, as though they'd been waiting behind a bottleneck. "I want to be touched by you, kissed, licked, undressed, ravaged… and _used_."

She almost wept with relief at having said it out loud, all those months of holding it in…

But she knew her work here was not done.

"Dinner at the little bistro, remember the exquisite food, perhaps you'll fancy that I ate it off your fingers, lapped at them delicately with the tip of my tongue, and made you tingle. My tongue searched for something dribbling at the sides of my mouth, and it drove you absolutely _mad._

"In the hot spring… I was wearing a purple bathing suit, but what if I wasn't? What if I had been nude, and you could watch me twisting, bare in the water? You'd chase after me. Dare to think about what you'd do to me, with me, if you caught me.

"What would you do? You'd become enraged, engorged, emboldened by desire. You would go off the rails with cunning, and wouldn't have time for seduction or romance. You'd just need to fuck. Me. Only me. Any way you want. Every nasty little desire you've ever, ever had." She gulped, and added, her voice aquiver, "Whether I want it or not."

When she said that last part, she almost withdrew from the whole ritual, because she couldn't believe the direction this had gone, couldn't fathom what she was saying, and how twisted out-of-shape her longing had become, in its frustrated repression…

But she could feel herself growing slick with anticipation. She found that she couldn't wait to find out how _every nasty little desire he'd ever, ever had,_ might manifest. She found that she was dying to submit blindly to it, to let him have his way with her while being pliant and suggestible.

"The Crux Herb," she said to him. "Use it. Use it for evil. With me, and only me. Use it because you want me. Use it because your body is constantly on-edge with the craving, and you can't help yourself. Because the _power_ is intoxicating."

She took a few moments to stir her words into the air.

"And lastly," she said. "When you hear the door shut, you will awaken, and you'll feel something changed, quite suddenly, within you."

She put out the fires, gathered her materials, and waited for the smoke to dissipate. She then opened the door to his bedroom, stepped into the hallway, and shut it behind her.

That was when he woke with a start. And a raging erection.

* * *

DAY 4

The day ensued with the Doctor just barely able to concentrate on basic things like language, eating and walking. She noticed it with delight, and acted oblivious. She hoped that her "obliviousness" was making it all the sweeter – and all the more torturous – for him. She chirped like always, spoke with wonder about time and space like always, flirted like a teenaged girl, like always.

Martha could see the conflict in his eyes, reckoning he was mentally trying to talk himself out of doing what he planned, but also considering the satisfaction that he could achieve… and the _power._ Numerous times, she caught him looking at the bag of maple leaves on the floor, thinking it was the Crux Herb, and she could sense his breath quickening just a bit. And her pulse quickened along with it.

Finally, when she wasn't looking, he hit a button on the console that made an alarm sound.

 _Oh, here we go,_ she thought. _Here's the ruse._

"What's that?" she asked, innocently.

"A distress call," he lied, squinting at the screen.

And so, he contrived to "answer" the false call from an invented psychic Native American tribe, in rural Alaska in the autumn of… some year. The year was, after all, not important. It was the _time of year_ that mattered, a time when dried maple leaves would be abundant and brown, all over the floor of the forest.

"I'm not sure where their camp is, but it's near," he said, stepping out of the TARDIS with her, into the brisk Alaska air. "Let's go separate directions, and see if we can locate their signal."

He went on to describe a bogus "fire sign" that would certainly not appear in the sky as a beacon, and instructed Martha to walk for fifteen minutes in one direction, then turn back, and he would do the same.

She walked in the direction he had told her, gladly slipping out of sight so that he could gather up yet more maple leaves to replace the maple leaves already on the floor of the console room. She didn't know where he would stash what he thought was the real Crux Herb, but it didn't matter to her.

She gave him a little more than the half-hour he had allowed himself. During that time, she sat on a mountainside and tried to force down the anticipation, the pure, searing desire that was growing and crawling through her insides, like a vine. She was alone, and so, briefly, she contemplated relieving that sexual tension herself, while she waited, but she decided against it, as tonight's adventure would be all the more explosive if she let it build up even more.

Instead, she opted for meditation.

But she found that she could not concentrate on removing herself from the environment, and from her body. Instead, she simply sat in the lotus position, measuring her breathing, concentrating only on her own fiery, slippery _wanting_ , and pulling it under control.

* * *

That night, their first night, she wasn't sure what to expect. She knew what she wanted… but she had always known that. Since she'd met him, she'd known.

She was still not discounting the possibility that the Crux Herb didn't work on Time Lords and that he'd been feigning sleep during her incantation, and knew everything she was trying to do.

But then, why land in Alaska with the pretend distress call? Why did he seem so tightly-coiled the last day or so? Could it be part of an elaborate act?

She reckoned she'd made her choice, and that there was only one way to find out the answer to these questions, and that was to wait it out.

The nervousness and excitement churning within her, she couldn't believe that the Doctor couldn't _see_ it coming off of her like steam. Though, she reminded herself, if all was going to plan, the Doctor should now be feeling something similar. After all, in his own mind, he was about to commit a grievous violation of her trust…

He'd learn to live with it, though, just as she would learn to live with her own grievous act.

She lay down that night, with no intention of sleeping. She decided to read a book, though she used a small torch to do so, under the bedclothes. She did not want the Doctor thinking, in any way, that she might be awake.

After about ninety minutes of this, she heard footstep padding past her bedroom door. She reckoned he was going wherever it was that he had hidden what he believed to be his stash of Crux Herb. She quickly turned off the torch and tucked it, and the book, under the bed. She posed herself to looked well settled-in, peacefully sleeping, with very soft, convincing snores.

And then he crept into the room. She buzzed with anxiety now…

She heard him whisper her name a couple of times, but of course, she did not answer.

At that point, he must have been satisfied that she was not conscious of him, because he then lit a bowl full of maple leaves, and let the room fill with smoke.

He began to chant in the way the priests of Dimin had taught him. Then, she heard him address her directly, through gritted teeth.

"You want sex. You are desperate for it – have to have it _right now,_ and you are insatiable," he growled, breathlessly. Just hearing him say the words nearly made her moan with the wave of heat that came over her. But she kept it in check, and listened further. "You want to be cooperative. Pliable. You love to be treated roughly, and to be _used_. But only by me. You need it, crave it… are starving for it. My desires are your desires. My satisfaction is your passion, and your own satisfaction will be like fireworks."

He "stirred" the words into the inhalant, extinguished to fire, and then she could hear him pacing back and forth over the carpet in her bedroom.

She counted to one hundred silently, then pretended to stir. "Mmm… Doctor?" she said, squinting against the darkness.

"Yes," he breathed. She sat up, and the two of them stared at one another for a few moments, until he said, "Stand up."

The command was exactly the sort of thing she'd been hoping for: decisive, masterful and fraught with need. She threw the blankets off, and stood. She made sure to keep her face mostly impassive, but she adopted a slight, beatific smile that denoted her willingness, and also intoxication. He held her gaze impressively, as he stood, with wolfish abandon in his eyes.

Just at the periphery of her gaze, she could see the hard bulge at the front of his trousers, and had to strain, force herself not to look. The thought of it made her dizzy. She wanted to feel it digging into her thigh, against her abdomen, wanted it in her hand, in her mouth…

Since he had instructed her (or thought he had) to be desperate and insatiable, she wondered if she really should be staring at it, licking her lips, going for it. Should she? Yes. No… she'd wait for more instructions. But…

"Come here," he said holding his hand out to her.

She walked forward, then took his hand, being as obedient as she could.

He held her eyes for a few moments longer, and then he stepped back from her, looking her over. He circled her, studying her. She could feel his eyes all over her, seeing her through her oversized t-shirt, sailing over her, sizing her up, and, she hoped, hungering.

She was in a strange position. Well, of course she was. But her dilemma was that of not knowing exactly how to act. She was definitely supposed to be in the more submissive role here, and some element of this was to be robotic, but the words he had used to "entrance" her and make her do his sexual bidding, they suggested that he desired a bit of fire from her. More than a bit, in fact.

And so, finding a middle ground, she held his eye as long as he held hers. She allowed her own voracious desire to reflect back at him, and when he walked round her, she watched him carefully, with sparks in her eyes.

For what felt like ages, he just drank her in, looking several times as though he wanted to say something, to touch her, to devour her, but he held back. He was acting like he wasn't sure where to start. She hoped that was a good thing.

At last, he came up behind her and slid his hands up under her tee-shirt, put his hands on her waist, his long fingers stretching possessively over her hips. He pulled her against him, and she felt that rock-solid hardness against her back, and she couldn't help but lean into him and moan. His hands slid round to her middle, it seemed, memorising the way her hips met the rest of her body. Then they slid up further, engulfing both breasts, again, spreading over her body as if they owned it.

He squeezed, and she moaned, as did he. He pinched her nipples, and she moaned again. He tried it harder, and elicited a little, surprised cry, which made him practically growl with lust. At that point, he tugged at the hem of her tee-shirt and pulled it roughly over her head, and repeated what he had done, only with a bit more voracity, more boldness, a bit more force.

He groaned in her ear, a deep sigh that betrayed wanting. "This body…" he breathed. "D'you know how badly I've been needing to put my hands all over it?"

"Hands all over…" she echoed, with the same desperate, but faraway, tone.

"All over," he growled. "This body begs for it, begs to be handled. Tight and round and…"

She squirmed a bit when he pinched her nipples this time, along with the high-pitched cry.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked.

"Yes," she whispered, truthfully, ethereally, mechanically.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No."

"Good girl," he hissed in her ear.

And so, he pulled practically hard enough to bruise, and the sensation went straight down between her legs, making her throb, swell and ache, though she yelped, and tried reflexively to twist away.

He let his arms slither off of her, and as they did, he took her hand and led her to the armchair in the corner. He positioned her facing the chair, standing with her knees against the seat cushion. There, he hooked his fingers through the sides of her white cotton knickers, and tugged hard, until they were around her ankles. He guided her feet out of them, then tossed them aside.

"Bend forward," he ordered, and she obeyed of course, placing her hands on the back of the chair.

He rubbed his erection against her bare bottom now, through his trousers. She bit her lip to keep from blowing her cover, to keep from begging him to get on with it…

She contented herself to know that the sweet torture would be worth it, and that he would eventually delight in how wet he had made her with this whole production.

His hands moved over her thighs, first front, then back, then they slid up over her bum. He gave it a good, sound, slap, and she yelped in delight. She wondered briefly if there was too much pleasurable abandon in her voice, but when he slapped her bum again, she was careful to grunt, followed by a heady moan.

The Doctor's voice was gravelly now, telling her, "Been wanting to do _that_ for a bloody long time."

She wanted to order him to do it again, but she didn't know if this would alert him to her lucidity, so again, she bit her lip.

Though he did not give her another slap, he did explore the roundness, the warm curves of her bum. He squeezed a bit, digging his fingertips into her flesh.

He seemed to suck in air through his teeth, and he said, again, "This body…"

And again, she echoed, "This body…"

"Every inch of it… is like fire. Like quicksand. Like it was made to torture me."

His hands roved more. Thighs, hips, abdomen, breasts, bum… She felt him touch her everywhere, she shivered, breathed, gushed with desire.

"No," she breathed. "Never torture you. To pleasure you." She regretted it as soon as it was out of her mouth – it was too _alive,_ as it were. But the good news was, he couldn't see her face, and she had kept her tone remote and airy.

Though, that was when he tugged her hair just hard enough to cue her to stand up, so she did. He pulled it to the side, and sucked at her neck, practically biting her. Then, which clenched teeth, he said, "Then, I need to _have_ you – have this body. I need bury myself in it. Do you understand?"

"Oh, yes."

Scorching, desirous words tumbled from his mouth, right next to her ear, and her body burned for every bit of it. "I need to fill you up, feel you taking it in, all throbbing and slippery, and I need to explode inside you."

She felt him stir behind her. Specifically, she heard the rustle of clothing and felt the heat of bare flesh against her. His cock was solid, and pressed against her bum.

His incantation came back to her then. _You want sex. You are desperate for it… insatiable._

She bent at the waist, placing her hands on the back of the chair once again, and said, "Do it. I can't wait anymore."

For good measure, he pried her legs apart a bit more with his own knees, then seemed to relish the long few moments it took as his cock slid into her. They both groaned as he drove it home the first time, slowly, painstakingly.

But what followed was a long, hard, breathless fuck. Every bit of desire that had been brewing in both of them over the past hours, weeks, months… it all came to a bottleneck here between their bodies, and demanded a good pounding. Every time she had wished for him to spread her open and _use_ her well, every time he had looked her over and had nasty thoughts – it was all here. Filthy words tumbled from their lips, and became real. Sensation reigned, as did deception, and the whole sordid package caused Martha to come, screaming, as the Doctor's fingers kneaded her clit and his cock pummeled her from the inside.

Her knees were weak, and her thighs burned, so she asked for a reprieve, in as passive a way as she could manage. But he insisted that she didn't really want him to stop, and he wasn't wrong. She went to her knees on the seat cushion, and continued to take what he was giving. She spread open even farther, leaned over farther, and to get good leverage, he joined her behind her on the cushion.

And he fucked her some more. Hard, as he had been longing to, and as if she had no idea she was being used as a toy, and as if he wouldn't really have to look her in the eye the following morning.

And then he went faster, because a man can only delay so long. And why should he bother? He was down the rabbit hole now with the depravity… and _his_ pleasure was _hers._

He felt the explosion rising, the urgency bubbling up, and frankly, the sweat at her temples, and in the small of her back, the limp, debauched slurring that was beginning to overtake her… it was shamefully intoxicating. He was wearing her out, fucking her into exhaustion, and that was what he had wanted. When would he have this chance again? If he was going to _use_ her, he might as well do it right, and turn her into a ragdoll.

When she took her right hand away from the back of the chair, in order to rub her clit, her left arm buckled, and she wound up in a very awkward position, her head sideways against the cushion. Her neck now took the brunt of the force of his body, but the whole thing seemed to spur her on.

"Fuck me harder!" she demanded, her voice harsh. He obliged, and yet, "Harder!" she cried.

And again, he gave her what she asked for. He did not hesitate.

At this angle, his cock slammed against just the right spot, and she began to tremble. Then, practically _into_ the cushion, she mumbled, "Doctor." Then, breathlessly, she said, "Oh, you're making me come!"

And she grunted in release, as he felt those unmistakable, gripping spasms inside of her, he couldn't take it anymore. Spurts of relief came out of him, flooding her body, _at last_ , after what felt like aeons of wanting to fuck her, fill her, claim her. It was a gorgeous moment, though not a soft, languid release. It was explosive like a sneeze or a blast of arctic air. He bit his lip and growled against the extended afterplay, dug his fingertips into her flesh as his body seemed to spasm forever, and his vision blurred.

At last, with his bearings recovered, he pulled out of her, away from her, and slumped onto the floor with his back against the chair, catching his breath. Martha turned over onto the chair, and sat with her bum in the seat. She, too, caught her breath, and wondered what would happen next.

"That was fucking fantastic," he remarked, after a minute or so.

"Yes, it was," she mused. She was sincere – it _had_ been fucking fantastic – though, she was still aware that she was supposed to be under obedient hypnosis.

"You are a firecracker," he told her.

"As are you."

He reached up with one hand and stroked her thigh, as her legs were draped over the front of the armchair right beside him. For a long while, they stayed like this in silence until he said, "Only one thing missing."

"What is that?"

"I'd have liked to look you in the eye."

"I'd have liked that as well."

He leaned his head back against her legs. "I'd have liked to watch your face while you come."

"And I'd have liked to watch yours, while you come."

"Mmm," he sighed. "Tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night," she echoed.

"I'll see you lose control," he said, still rather musing. "I'll make you come, nice and hard, break the dam and feel the gush. And then… does your mouth fall open? Or do you bite your lip? Do you close your eyes? Or do they open wide? Do they water, when pleasure is being forced out of you? Eh?"

"I…"

"Don't tell me," he said, with a little smile. "All of that is rhetorical. I'll see it for myself soon enough."

For a few minutes longer, they sat in two heaps of exhausted flesh, still not making eye-contact. At some point, Martha drifted off to sleep, there in the chair, where she sat.

But then, some sort of impetus struck the Doctor, and he suddenly stood up, and attempted, gently, to help her up as well. She could see terrible guilt gripping him from all sides as he clumsily helped her back into her tee-shirt. The deep frown shone, and she swore that she could see some tears in his eyes as he laid her down with her head on the pillow, and attempted to pull the tee-shirt down over her nether regions. She had been able to feel his come sliding out of her onto the seat cushion, and now it was soaking into the sheets. As he did this, she wondered what was going through his mind, that he thought he could just say, "Go back to sleep, love," and everything would be fine. His voice cracked a little when he said it…

But did he think she wouldn't notice the stickiness between her thighs in the morning? Or the fact that she'd been wearing underpants when she went to bed, but now they were wadded up on the floor?

But she let him go, grief-stricken, from the room, without saying a word. He must have believed her to be catatonic or something.

For her part, she fell into a pleasant, exhausted, sated sleep. And with something to look forward to for tomorrow night. For, she knew he would make himself sick over what he had done, but she, of course, also knew the way to snapping him out of it.

* * *

DAY 7

"Good morning," she said, walking carefully into the console room, a mug in each hand. She handed him one of them. "I brought you one too, since the last two mornings, you've sent me back again."

"Thanks," he said flatly, and stared hard at the computer screen.

For the third morning in a row, she could see that he was a coiled spring, a bundle of nerves, riddled with guilt and doubt. Just hearing her voice probably called up a tornado of memories from the previous three nights – first bending her over the armchair, and forcing her arm and neck into a painful position while he enjoyed himself. The next night, having her on the floor, watching her come over and over, until she genuinely couldn't anymore. Last night, he'd had her in the mouth with totally selfish abandon, then rammed her hard and fast with a sex toy. And now, he was probably trying to force all of his emotions into check, and probably wondering why he couldn't stop.

She knew what was likely clouding his mind because she had put it there. And the same things were in her own mind, including: why couldn't she stop? She almost wished, today, that she could talk to him about it. Let him know that he's not the one with the fucked-up desires. That he didn't really have an uncontrollable urge to have sex with her without her consent (or even without her knowing), that _she_ was the one who, for some reason, wanted to be used, ordered about, handled roughly and thoughtlessly…

She had always been a bit warped that way, ever since losing her virginity against the side of a hauling lorry, parked behind a petrol station somewhere in Wales. He was her university mate, three years older and far more experienced, and for the sake of silence and brevity (not getting caught) he had been urgent, rough, commanding and a bit selfish through the whole process. It had thrilled her.

Though whether _this_ was about getting that same twisted thrill, she did not know.

 _This_ might just be, paradoxically, about _the power_. Over him. Over the most powerful man in the universe, who was still not immune to the whammy she could lay on him.

And power over _him_ , the man she genuinely loved and hungered for. Being used like a sex doll was one thing, but having _him_ use her, feeling _him_ exploding inside of her, hearing _his voice_ order her to her knees… she reckoned that was really at the crux of it all. Him.

Why was she doing this? Perhaps because he wasn't coming round to it on his own quickly enough for her? Perhaps because, even if he did, left to his own devices, he'd probably _make love_ to her, the thought of which bored her to death. He would try to suppress what he really wanted, and it would take possibly _years_ to drag it out of him. This was quicker, it led to more uninhibited sex, and put her in-control even if what she wanted was to be submissive.

"Sleep well?" he couldn't help but ask.

"As always," she answered. "Adventures with you really take it out of me, I guess."

"I guess."

Once again, she leaned one elbow on his shoulder as she inspected the screen. He turned his head to look at her, and the oblivion within him was only growing, as was his guilt.

 _This is wrong,_ she told herself. _He is hating himself right now, but that's really_ my _guilt to bear, that's_ my _self-loathing that I see in his eyes. I love him – how could I use him this way? How could I put that on him?_

 _How could I have non-consensual sex with someone I care about?_

"Martha?" he said, rather interrupting her reverie.

"Yep?" she asked, shaking it off. She was sipping her coffee, playing the oblivious party.

"Nothing," he sighed.

"Budge over," she said, bumping her hip against him.

She knew that tingled a bit when she did this, because she did as well. He moved over six inches, so that she could sit. It was impossible for any two adults to sit on that stool together without touching, so next, she pressed most of the left side of her body pressed against most of the right side of his. With total boldness, no trepidation…

And he was warm. And alive. And… _trusting._

Yet she was lighting a fire inside of him. Of both of them. Sparks so bright, they were blinding. And his total confidence in her, and knowing the guilty, delicious memories flooding behind his eyes just now, made it burn all the brighter. In a little while, he would take her hand, lead her into adventure, trust her with his life. Her baser urges and her _conscience_ should be impeded by this.

But they were not. Somehow she'd got over it so she could have him…

…and now, she had to strain not to allow her arousal to give her away.

So, she asked a question to distract them both. "So, what're you working on?"

"Actually, I'm just going through some old journalistic archives," he said, pointing at the Gallifreyan text on the screen. "I'm dumping what's not required, to make room for… well, other things."

"Cool. So now we can download series one of _MI5._ "

"Exactly."

"Wish I could help."

"Maybe you can," he said. "Do you want to learn the number system?"

"Seriously?"

"Sure," he said. "It's fairly easy – works on base-sixteen."

"That sounds like a challenge."

"You're up to it."

"Okay then," she said, a bit less enthusiastically than he would have liked. "Just let me shower first. If I'm going to work my brain… I'm going to need to feel refreshed."

"You don't have to. I'll just do it myself, it's fine."

"No, I want to help."

"We could just set the coordinates on _random_ and go somewhere unknown instead, and have a proper adventure."

"Don't patronise me," she scolded, smacking him on the shoulder with the back of her hand. She _really_ wanted to smack his bottom, but that definitely would have alerted him to something amiss. So, she started for the corridor. "I'll help you out. Of course I will. If it's really helping."

"It is. I just don't want to force you, if you're not into it," he said, absently.

These words stopped her in her tracks in the archway to the corridor. She turned, looked at him with a scepitcal, sardonic smile, and said, "Oh no, wouldn't want that. Now that would be _very very_ wrong, indeed." Her voice dripped with sarcasm, but he missed them.

Then she chuckled and disappeared down the hall.

* * *

 **Okay, so... yeah, it's kinda f***ed up. Thank you for reading! Curious to know what you think...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, it's been almost a year since I've posted on this story... I wanted to keep it going because messed-up as it is, it's also delicious! And fun to write. And hey, thanks for coming back to it, if that's the case!**

 **If you'll recall, the Doctor had, for a few days, appeared to have been forcing Martha into various, slightly deviant, sexual acts without her knowledge, by way of the "Crux Herb," and a ritual that causes people to do your bidding, with an amnesiac after-effect. He was drunk on power, blind with lust... but weighed down hard, with feelings of guilt.**

 **But in the second chapter, we find out that it's actually Martha who has used the Herb and a different ritual on the Doctor. The ritual she used required the "Light of Recall," which means that he does her bidding (has slightly deviant sex with her), and remembers doing it, but does not remember that she made the suggestion.**

 **At the end of the story, on Day 7, both of them were feeling horrible for what they'd done to one another.**

 **Here, we jump ahead to Day 11. As before, please pay attention to the order of events. We will see what led them to the events of Day 11, all in good time...**

 **There's mild, suggestive smut, and also some fairly unambiguous smut. Obviously, NSFW, as if you needed to be reminded! Please enjoy!**

* * *

 **PART 3**

 _DAY 11_

Four days ago, Martha had learned parts of Gallifrey's numbering system via a set of combined and recombined symbols, set on a base-sixteen system. She hadn't realised how much she might enjoy it, until she really got going. It had given her brain a good stretching; it had been frustrating, and a few times she had wanted to give up, but she had found it, in the end, immensely satisfying.

With her newfound knowledge, she had helped the Doctor to catalogue some journalistic archives stored in the TARDIS' limited Dimension-1 memory banks, and then jettison anything that the Doctor deemed unneeded.

The consequence of this was, what Martha had dubbed, "Outer space spam," a form of information-firing, that had begun late in the day, just after the purge had been performed. The Doctor had thought this nickname apt, as it was unfiltered communication, coming to and from different channels, and the TARDIS happened to be in the way, gathering messages whether it needed to or not.

"Although, really, it's more like when you've got a CB radio, and you catch others' conversations, just because you're on the same frequency," he said.

The point was, that in all the din, with the fifty or sixty messages that came in every hour, there was bound, eventually, to be at least one that would make the Doctor respond.

"Distress call," he had sighed, this afternoon, looking through the 'outer space spam folder.'

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Half the planet Hypotasso receives its electrical power from these, erm…" he paused long enough that Martha looked up at him "…steam pumps."

"Oh."

"Essentially, they are engineered tributaries of this massive geyser."

Something came over her at this revelation. "Oh," she repeated, practically choking on the syllable, and swallowing hard.

He caught the high-pitched, yet subdued, tone of her _oh_. "What was that?" he asked her, shifting his eyes, quickly to hers.

"Nothing," she said, shifting her own eyes quickly away.

But she could feel his eyes on her. All over her, as a matter of fact.

With the state she was in, she could feel _everything_. Her pulse pounded all the time, her skin prickled at the tiniest provocation. Her nether regions throbbed whenever he looked at her the way he was looking at her now, and it was utterly ridiculous how her body was reacting to him using the words _massive geyser,_ and even _steam pump._ It was almost shameful.

Almost.

Because, the fact was, he knew exactly what he'd said to make her choked _oh_ come out the way it had. He may or may not have done it on purpose, but no matter – he was onto her now.

She tried to lean coolly against the console with her arms crossed over her chest. But, she knew, the fact that she also crossed her legs tightly over one another, this was giving her away. He watched her with one eyebrow raised, taking in everything there was to see of her at this moment, knowing that she was trying to abate a certain heat he'd ignited, and that she was probably failing.

"So, what about the… the, er…" she began.

"The pumps?" he asked, practically whispered, trying to attract her eye.

And he succeeded for a short moment, before she couldn't hold his gaze anymore, and she blinked away.

"Yeah," she said.

"Well, it looks like they're about three hours from destroying a hemisphere," he said, turning his attention back to the screen.

With that, he threw the TARDIS into gear, and the familiar sound of the universe echoed through the room as, presumably, they arrived on the planet Hypotasso.

He strode toward the door, and opened it. "Oh, the heat. You'll love it." He fluttered a very intentional eyebrow at her, and she felt another wave of something powerful. It washed over her like a tide, except it did not ebb.

She watched as he stepped back into the TARDIS, shed his jacket and his tie, and hung them up on the coat rack by the door. Then, he unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled up his sleeves.

Once again, he looked her over, and she couldn't help but notice that steam poured in through the door, slightly ajar. "You might want to reduce the thread count," he said.

"Okay," she obliged, and shed her corduroy jacket, in favour of the spaghetti-strap top underneath.

He held out his hand to her, and she took it, practically trembling now.

They stepped out of the TARDIS into a large room, that was panelled on one side completely with windows. The rest of the room around them contained computer screens, perhaps fifty of them, all of which were flashing with red-alerts of some kind.

"Why aren't there fifty alarms going off in here?" she asked, looking about at the urgency transmitted visually in a quiet room.

"Someone must have silenced them," he said. "Clearly, they're aware of the problem…"

"They just don't know how to solve it?"

"Hence the distress call."

"What _is_ the problem?" she asked.

The Doctor led her to the glass and they looked out. Whatever building they were in was clearly up on a mountainside, or at least on stilts, because they were peering down a thousand feet into a valley of low, rocky hills.

"Just wait a few moments, and I'll show you," he whispered, his voice low and raspy. After a longer-than-normal beat, he asked, "You know how to _wait_ , don't you?"

"Yes," she practically whimpered, staring out at the hills.

"Yes, you do," he growled at her, and again, she felt his eyes slide over her. "You've got the patience of Job, you."

"Haven't had much choice," she muttered, swallowing hard, pointedly avoiding eye-contact.

Within about thirty seconds, she felt a trembling of the floor beneath her feet. The whole building, whole terrain, seemed to be vibrating.

"Feel that?" he asked, squeezing her hand harder.

"Yeah."

" _That_ is the problem," he told her. "It's a mounting of tension. On this planet, just beneath the surface, there's heat gathering. Heat and moisture and pressure churn and swirl, and it all culminates in a great big _p-shhh!_ "

She had to catch her breath when he said this, the onomatopoeia that signaled _release_. She caught a hot frisson, which settled in between her legs, and made her juices flow.

" _P-shhh?_ " she asked, mousily, looking up at him like a child.

"Mm," he said, eyes flashing, totally conscious of her arousal. " _P-shhh_. A geyser, right there, outside this window, is supposed to explode all over this valley, at regular intervals. All that ramping-up, all that stoking of the internal fire, it leads there. And then, there is relief, all over this hemisphere."

"I see."

"Thus, equilibrium everywhere else."

"I see," she repeated.

"When the pressure is allowed to vent, then other things beneath the surface work more smoothly. Plate tectonics, vegetation and ecosystems…"

"I see," she repeated, yet again.

"Yes, I think you do," he murmured. "But watch." He gestured out the window.

The quaking of the world around them mounted and mounted, and Martha inwardly begged it to stop, as she could feel the trembling in her bones, and in every other part of her body.

When suddenly, there was a " _Tsss"_ sound, and a gigantic black hole in the hills below released a small, rather anticlimactic, spurt of water.

"What?" she cried out, rather too passionately. "That wasn't a geyser, that was a… blorp. A bubble. What's going on?"

He shrugged, smirking. "Something's holding it back."

"Well, make it stop!" she shouted. Then, she found a measure of lucidity, and backpedaled. "I mean… this can't be safe for the planet."

"Indeed, it's not," he said.

Just then, a door opened at the side of the room, and five people spilled inside.

"The Doctor, I presume?" asked a woman who came at him with her hand extended.

He shook it. "Yes," he said. "And this is Martha Jones."

"I'm Captain Moni Herzog."

" _Enchanté._ Got a bit of a pickle here, do you?"

"Yes," she said. "More than a bit. Thank you for coming."

The other folks went to different computer stations around the room, and began chattering at each other about the different readings. One of the men in the group began talking directly to the Doctor and Martha, showing them one of the screens.

"Each screen represents one of the steam pumps," he explained. "There's one steam pump in each major city in this hemisphere, and the city's power grid is run this way. When the geyser blows, so does each steam pump, as we have engineered a tributary system. The kinetic energy is harnessed as usable, clean, renewable electricity."

"That's clever," Martha said, lamely. She was listening to the man, but was still distracted by her own screaming body.

"That earthquake you felt?" said the man. "That's not supposed to happen. Under normal circumstances, the geyser goes off about every three minutes without ceremony, without incident. There's no warning, except the fact that we know exactly when it's going to happen… because we've studied it, obviously."

"The quake is only occurring because something is keeping the tension held in," the Doctor said.

"Exactly," said the man. "Except, it's not being completely held in. It's being vented through the steam pumps."

"Oh, I understand," said Martha. "And the steam pumps are being forced to accommodate more pressure, as they vent, than they are equipped for."

"Right," said the man. "And for the past twenty-four hours or so, the problem has been building."

"So, venting in the cities gets longer and harder each time," the Doctor said, squeezing Martha's hand.

She cursed him inwardly, and bit her bottom lip against the massive throbbing this gave her.

"Yes. The venting lasts longer and unleashes more pressure," the man said. "We don't know how long this can go on, before the steam pumps fail completely, and explode, with the collective force of the geyser."

"Which will level the cities," the Doctor said. "Well, sir, based on the information gleaned from my TARDIS, I estimate you've got about three hours before that happens."

The man spoke up. "Captain!"

The woman who had initially shook hands with the Doctor looked up from her computer. "Yeah?"

"Three hours, the Doctor thinks."

"Damn," she spat. "That's less time than we thought."

"Then we'd better get moving," said the Doctor. He looked about the room, and gave everyone a job, as far as monitoring, testing and contacting. Then he looked at Martha. "What do you say? Are you ready to stop holding back?"

She couldn't answer. She just looked at him with disbelief, and total, all-consuming, lust.

He smiled and said, "I thought you might be. Let's do it."

* * *

Over the next two hours, the Doctor, of course, worked out what kind of mineral build-up was forming inside of the geyser, and how to rig the underground tributary system to whittle it away, thus leaving the way clear for total release.

At last, he stood at the computer station nearest the windows, while Martha stood before the glass and waited, again, to see the geyser blow. He watched the countdown, noting to the whole room that there was no more earthquake.

When the massive spray of steaming water came out of the ground, there was a cathartic burst of shouts and cheers inside the room. Martha, on the other hand, nearly lost her breath, and lost her ability to stand. She leaned against the glass for support, and closed her eyes against the sight. She panted, trying to gain her balance, and when she did, she turned and looked at the Doctor. He was smug – more smug than his usual I-just-solved-a-big-bloody-problem demeanour. She made eye-contact, and allowed him to see her whole body heaving with tension.

She exhaled harshly, and began to walk toward the TARDIS. As she passed the Doctor, she growled at him, "I fucking hate you right now."

He smiled, and watched her disappear, without another word, inside the blue box.

* * *

When, after about ten minutes, he stepped into the console room, he found her sitting in the lotus position on the stool. He reckoned she was trying to calm down. This delighted him.

However, he said to her, with no whimsy, "Why did you walk away from me? You know you're not supposed to be alone."

"Fuck off," she said, annoyed.

"Mm-hm," he replied, setting the TARDIS' gears to depart. "You know what this means, don't you? It means waiting an extra night."

"Excuse me?"

"I know that the agreement was three nights only," he said. "But you also agreed never to be out of my sight. And you know why."

"Well, I didn't… _do anything_ while I was alone, I swear," she told him, with a mixture of supplication, and bitterness. "I just sat here and tried to meditate."

"I know," he said. "The TARDIS is telling me as much. But that doesn't change the fact that you broke the rules. The consequence is, an extra night, as I said."

"Whatever. If I can sit through that geyser business, I can sit through anything," she insisted, though her voice quavered with uncertainty. "Did you set that up?"

"No, the geyser malfunctioning was a happy accident," he answered. "And oh, Martha, you know that it could get so, so much worse than that. Don't assume you have the mettle." He smiled at the prospect.

"Yeah. I know."

"Mm. Now, will you help me purge the last wave of outer space spam?"

"Why not?" she said, hopping off the stool, grateful for a distraction.

And she clicked away at the computer screen in the way the Doctor had shown her, while the Doctor did the same job while interfacing with the TARDIS in a much less-tangible way.

Purging.

Such a great word. A word that was _à propos_ of their situation.

Because, not only was she glad for the current distraction, but she was glad to be purged of the guilt she had been carrying. Today, there in the console room, this was just _them_. No more lies, no more "magic," no more rituals or Crux Herb, secret stashes of benign Maple leaves squirrelled away within the TARDIS. This was real. Everyone was truly responsible for his or her own actions.

Although, _real_ didn't mean there wasn't still some manner of mask-wearing involved, it was just that everyone now knew the score, and was acting of their own volition. A hot shot of lust radiated through her. For three days, she had been tolerating the Doctor's cleverly meted-out whim, which left her a quivering mass of nerves. She had done so, well, because she rather enjoyed it. It put her near him, underneath him, pressed between him and furniture or walls, on the back foot, totally at his mercy… of course she enjoyed it. But also, in part, she'd done it, all the while knowing that tonight, she would finally have some respite…

But now, it looked as though that would not happen, as he had told her she would now have to endure it for one more night. From this moment, it was another thirty, perhaps thirty-two hours before she could look forward to a letting-up of pressure, and between now and then, there was _torture_ to be endured.

Not that this particular brand of torture was entirely unpleasant. In fact, it was quite pleasant indeed. _That_ was precisely the difficulty of it.

She tried to calm her body as she worked, but she couldn't help but re-hash, in her mind, the events that had brought them to this state of affairs.

* * *

DAY 7

 _How could I have non-consensual sex with someone I care about?_

It was a question they'd both been asking themselves separately. He had used a ritual, and an herb, to lull her into submission, then had used her body for his own pleasure, for three nights in a row.

Yet, he had no idea that the only reason he had done it was that Martha had used the same herb, and a similar ritual of suggestion, on him, for three nights in a row.

And so, for the third morning in a row, she could see that he was a coiled spring, a bundle of neuroses, riddled with guilt and doubt. Just hearing her voice probably called up a tornado of memories from the previous three nights – first bending her over the armchair, and forcing her arm and neck into a painful position while he enjoyed himself. The next night, having her on her back, on the floor, making her come over and over, watching her with violent avarice in his eyes, until she genuinely couldn't anymore. Last night, he'd had her in the mouth with totally selfish abandon, then rammed her hard and fast with a sex toy. And now, he was probably trying to force all of his emotions and lusts into check, and wondering why he couldn't stop this madness.

She almost wished, today, that she could talk to him about it. She almost wished she could let him know that he's not the one with the fucked-up desires, that _she_ was the one who, for some reason, wanted to be used, ordered about, handled roughly and thoughtlessly…

Paradoxically, she realised, it was about _the power_. Over him. Power over the most powerful man in the universe, who was still not immune to the whammy she could lay on him.

And power over _him_ , the man she genuinely loved and hungered for. Being used like a sex doll was one thing, but having _him_ use her, feeling _him_ exploding inside of her, hearing _his voice_ order her to her knees… she reckoned that was really at the heart of it all. Him.

Why was she doing this? Perhaps because he wasn't coming round to it on his own quickly enough for her? Perhaps because, even if he did, left to his own devices, he'd probably _make love_ to her, the thought of which bored her to death. He would try to suppress what he really wanted, and it would take possibly _years_ to drag it out of him. This was quicker, it led to uninhibited sex, and put her in-control even if what she wanted was to be submissive.

And in these mornings-after, his total confidence in her, and knowing the guilty, delicious memories flooding behind his eyes just now, made her ache and burn. In a little while, he would take her hand, lead her into adventure, trust her with his life. Her baser urges and her _conscience_ should be impeded by this.

But they were not. Somehow she'd got over it so she could have him…

…and now, she had to strain not to allow her arousal to give her away.

* * *

A few hours later, Martha was well on her way to learning the base-sixteen system of Gallifreyan numbers that was leading her into cataloguing and categorising articles that had been in the TARDIS' Dimension-1 memory banks for far, far too long.

Which meant that the console room was now silent.

And that was an appalling state of affairs.

When he was talking with her and interacting with her, he didn't have to think about what he had done. It had only been a few days, but he was already extremely weary of the heavy combination of lust and guilt he felt. Ulcers were forming. He was torn inside by the memories of her sweat-soaked, writhing body, her moans, her face contorting in the throes of orgasm, juxtaposed against the fact that it had all been without her knowledge, against her will, and his actions had gone against everything he thought he was.

However, today was a bit different.

He felt the same crippling desire/self-loathing paradox when he thought of being with her, but somehow, much more in control of his faculties. Today, in a way, he felt more lucid than he had since this all began…

And he knew this because _fear_ was now also a dominating factor. He'd always been scared of her finding out and/or realising what he'd been doing to her, but today, that fear actually seemed as though it might supersede the compulsion to do it again. On previous days, he had discounted the nervousness and put it into a space of denial, because he knew deep down, he'd have her again, in her drunken, mechanical state – he wouldn't be able to stop himself.

Yes, today was definitely different.

 _I have to come clean,_ he said to himself. _I have to purge._

For a few hours, this thought had been knocking at the door of his consciousness, but trepidation had kept him from letting it in.

 _I have done something terrible, and I will need to face the consequences._

And he tried to bat it away for a while, but it kept coming back, like a haunting.

But, once she learned what he'd done to her, she would likely begin throwing things, screaming, and/or leave him (totally justifiably) before he could even finish the story. Because, let's face it… what reason would he give? He had no idea.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," he might say.

This thought actually made him give an involuntary, bitter laugh. Talk about minimizing a grave situation.

Or possibly, "I saw an opportunity to get to know you better."

 _Ugh. No. Just no._

"The craving for you was bigger than me," perhaps. This was the truth, but it was still just a lame excuse.

"I'm an arsehole who's been drunk with power for a while now, and I took the liberty." That was more like it.

He scoffed at himself.

 _What a fucking disaster._

All the same, what if there was a way to keep her calm, while he told her? A way to have her hear the whole story (such as it was), hear his apologies, hear his promises to make things right, but not have her freak out and lose the ability to process it? Ideally, he would tell her, she would listen, then let it incubate, and calmly decide what to do next. He could accept her wrath and/or the loss of her from his life forever, if he had the chance to finish speaking, and knew that she understood everything there was to understand.

How one might accomplish that, he had no idea. However, he did know who might know.

"Martha?" he said to her from across the console where they worked.

"Hm?"

"What would you say if we went back to Dimin today?"

She leaned to the side, so she could see him better. "For what?" She seemed surprised.

"I need to talk to one of the priests about something," he said. "You don't have to come. You can just stay here in the TARDIS. I'll only be a half-hour or so."

"Okay," she shrugged, and went back to her computer screen.

* * *

When the Doctor walked out of the TARDIS, she knew that something had changed. His whole demeanour was different, muted somehow.

It was guilt. She knew it, because she was feeling it too. And she had been able to smell it on him ever since their first morning-after.

But she also noticed that there was an _edge_ , of sorts, missing. The wolf-like hunger was gone from his eyes. In the previous mornings, she had seen it there, still, coveting her, hungering for her… under control, of course, quelled by the Doctor's conscience in those moments. But it had definitely been there.

She reckoned this meant that the spell had worn off. The effects of the Crux Herb, and the chant had left him, as had the fire. All that was left was charred, now sodden remains of culpability and regret, and she wondered if today, he was going to Dimin to consult with a priest about some sort of spiritual contrition.

She could, she supposed, lay it on him again. It would be easy enough…

But given the look of total self-loathing in his eyes when he left the TARDIS today, she reckoned, the game was over. It had been fun (actually, _fun_ didn't even begin to describe it)…

… _but I've done something terrible, and I will need to answer for it._

* * *

Martha lay in bed that night, unable to sleep – much like the last several nights, actually. Only, this time, it was not because of anticipatory lust, it was because scenarios of confession were running through her mind. How would she tell him? Would she start by coaxing him into telling the truth as he saw it, and confessing to him that it was all _her_ doing? Or would that be unnecessarily cruel? Could she just come out and openly _say it_? "I used you. I violated your trust. Your guts tied up in knots over the last three days – I did that to you. I made you question everything about yourself, your life, your ethics. I turned you into a rapist, because I liked it. I was selfish, impatient, greedy, short-sighted, and I'm sorry."

She thought about looking the man she loved in the eyes, and saying these words. She thought about the rage that would melt into his features, as she explained how she'd switched the Crux Herb and the Maple leaves. She imagined the cold, hard stare he would give her, that asked, _How could you?_ followed by the restrained reeling he would do, all over the room. Things might break. There would be colourful language.

She thought about him hissing some cruel words about her moral character, and then ordering her to leave the TARDIS and never come back. She wondered if she would be able to take it without shattering into a thousand pieces.

 _I have a lot of strength, for myriad things. I just don't know if this confession is one of them._

And then, a familiar sound stirred her.

It was the sound of the handle of her bedroom door being gingerly turned, so as to disturb as little as possible.

Quickly, she closed her eyes, miming sleep, and hoped that he couldn't hear her heart beginning to beat three times as fast. Nervousness and persistent, stubborn _lust_ had taken her over again. What was he up to?

Actually, a more interesting question was, what would he do to her? Had the "spell" not worn off yet? Did she have a _fourth_ night of glorious debauchery ahead of her? Or, had he somehow learned the truth of her sins, and come to punish her?

She listened to him tiptoe in. She heard the faint sound of the dry Maple leaves swishing about in the bowl. She heard him strike a match, and smelled the sulfur, and then the burning of the leaves. And then, she heard him strike yet another match.

She took a risk, and opened her eyes momentarily, sneaking a glance at what the Doctor was doing. The room was filling with smoke as it had on three previous nights, but now, she could see, the Doctor was now igniting the Light of Recall.

 _He wants me to remember._

That was when something unexpected happened.

"I have a message for you, Martha," he said to her, across the smoke, in the dark. "I want you to internalize, in your own way, what I am conveying, without interrupting. What I want from you is… well, the benefit of the doubt. Remain calm, and consider. Really consider, Martha, and don't react too strongly until I have finished. And, until you have had a chance to work out what it all means… for you, for me, for us, for the future."

And that was all he said. He did not tell her how to feel, or to ignore aspects of what she assumed would be a confession. It seemed, he just wanted her to _listen._

 _He's afraid I'll freak out and storm away before he has a chance to apologise, and explain, bless him. I really should let him know now…_

She remained still while the Doctor stirred the words he'd just said into the smoke.

… _now, come on, Martha. Open your eyes and tell him you can hear him, and that all of this is your fault. Do it!_

But she couldn't bring herself to. What would she say?

 _Oh, God, what would I say? I can't do it…_

* * *

He had been careful not to tell her how to feel, nor to ask her to forgive or forget. He hoped, in the end, she would forgive him on her own – but it had to be _her_ choice. He'd wanted desperately to build in a guarantee that he would not lose his best friend to his own debauched sense of need, but this whole thing was built on mind-control and lies and defilements of their friendship… it was time to let all of that go.

He stirred his words into the smoke, so that she would inhale them, and then he waited, as he had done three nights previously, for the instructions to set in.

Only now, he was sick with worry because what happened tonight, _she would remember_. He would not be able to put her back in bed and simply lull her to sleep, safe in the knowledge that the imprint of this abuse would be gone.

To his surprise, she sat up in bed a lot sooner than usual, and she did not say his name with the faraway, autonomic voice she'd had the previous three nights. He reckoned that something in her subconscious knew that this night was not going to be like the others.

She looked at him with wide, nervous eyes, and he fought to hold that gaze.

 _Oh God, she looks like a rabbit caught in headlights. She looks so innocent and frankly, terrified._

"Martha, I…" he began.

And he was choked.

 _Damn it, Doctor! Just do it! Say it! Tell her what you've done! You know she won't lose her temper just yet, you know she'll hear you out first, you've seen to that…_

But he just stared at her, unable to move, unable to speak. And Martha stared back, looking now expectant.

"I have something to say," he finally managed.

"Yes?"

Again, he seized. He flogged himself internally. He thought about all of the death-defying moments of his life - Daleks, laser beams, wars, falling through the vortex, running from invisible monsters, trying to reason with murderous despots – and yet, he did not have the courage for _this_.

 _The wrath of Martha Jones is worse than a Cyberman attack?_

 _No, but her pain might just be. The loss of her, might just be._

He turned away from her, and began to wander away from the bed, thinking about his dilemma. When he turned back around, his eye was automatically drawn to the Light of Recall, burning on the nightstand.

 _What happens here tonight, she will remember._

 _And I will be buggered._

So, what if he didn't have to say anything?

In his incantation, he had said, _I have a message for you_ … _What I want from you is the benefit of the doubt. Remain calm… don't react too strongly until I have finished. And, until you have had a chance to work out what it all means…"_

Though he'd been careful not to try and control her feelings, he had, again, forced her to submit to his will.

 _Whatever happens, she will remember. Why not let the chips fall where they may? If I confess or I don't, either way, now, she'll ask questions I won't be able to dodge._

* * *

The Doctor had said nothing of substance yet. She reckoned he was having a lot of the same thoughts as she was, wrestling with himself in the same way. As in, _come on, you coward – out with it!_

He walked away from the bed in a tortured pace. It hurt her to watch, and yet, she could say nothing. But then, he did something wholly unexpected.

He crawled up onto the bed, and across it, grabbed her by the jaw and kissed her heartily. It was not like the kisses he'd planted on her during the previous nights' activities. This was not a desperate, famished kiss with flavours of depravity hiding beneath, tongue driving forward, trying to fuck her mouth. It was not all breathless, indecent grunts, moans of muffled, nasty words.

This kiss had passion and sentiment and promise.

She saw what he was doing: this little act would save them both some anguish, in the end, or at the very least, it would open up the discussion in a way that neither of them would be able to elude.

He had already instructed her not to react too strongly until he'd "said" what he had to say, so she played, once again, the submissive role. She allowed the gentle force of him to guide her onto her back. She felt the weight of his body sink down on top of her, and continued to allow his tongue to probe, and dance against her own.

Eventually he shifted back, peeled off his t-shirt, then her blankets, and joined her under the covers. He buried his mouth behind her ear, licking and sucking at the tender flesh, carefully enlacing his fingers through her hair, though mindful not to yank. Eventually, his hands came round to the front, and crawled up inside of her night shirt, and helped her shed it. From there, he kissed and caressed her stomach and breasts, squeezing gently, and lapping at the nipples.

To her surprise, this profound, scrupulous prelude to _lovemaking_ inflamed her quite madly. The thought of going through this sort of thing with the Doctor had seemed rather tedious in the past, and yet she found that when he pressed down on her, moaned her name, bit her neck gently, and ground his erection into her thigh in askance, her legs parted of their own accord.

"Is this the message that you have for me?" she asked him, unprepared for how breathlessly her voice would come.

"More or less," he said, pulling back to look at her squarely. "Is it all right?"

"You're asking me if it's all right?"

"Yes. Is it?"

"Of course," she told him.

He sighed. "You trust me?"

"With my life."

He seemed now to gaze at her a bit sadly. "I wish I knew for sure…"

But with that thought, he resumed what he'd been doing. He switched to the other side of her neck, gave her gentle licks and bites, and she moaned at the sensation, almost in spite of herself. She could feel the simmering wetness gathering between her legs. He felt it too, as his fingers pressed against the soaked fabric of her knickers, and began to move in circles.

She squirmed against this treatment, as urgency grew. And then, shockingly, quickly, almost without warning, she came. It was like a punch to the gut, and she groaned as such, and couldn't help but growl "Fuck!" as her body tightened, then released. Her mouth opened wide as if in protest against the shock, and her eyes searched his, as though to ask, "What the hell did you just do?"

And like the gentleman he was, he brought her down slowly, expertly, kneading her clit gently, watching the waves of pleasure subside.

When they did, he hooked his fingers through the hips of her knickers and pulled them down her legs, and off. And, he did so without any of the brusqueness or severity with which he had done this before.

And, there was a chasm in her body, begging to be filled… and it was screaming at her.

It was a familiar scream. The Doctor was taking an eminently _normal_ and docile path tonight, and it had made her nether regions melt, and had given her a proper _pop_ of an orgasm as nothing quite so "tame" ever had before. Yet, she wasn't surprised to realise then that her body was bursting for a good fucking. She was craving the rough, dissolute, thoughtless, artless pounding to which she'd become all but addicted, over the last few nights…

What's more, she knew unequivocally, from experience, that his body was screaming at him for the same thing.

But then, yet another unexpected thing happened. He held her eyes, and she held his. He positioned himself between her legs and slid inside of her forcefully, though not roughly… and it felt amazing.

It felt _properly_ amazing.

Her body sparked with want as soon as his cock slid home, and immediately, she wrapped her legs around him and whimpered. He just remained this way for a few long, long seconds, lodged inside of her, his eyes penetrating her as much as any other part of him. And _even this_ was gorgeous to her – the stillness, the gathering of her attention, anticipation, and desire.

She reckoned he could feel it all collecting, building in her… she practically quaked in longing for him to drive it into her again and again. She could feel _him_ practically vibrating with the suppressed compulsion…

And it all seemed to reach a head, and she almost let out a frustrated demand that he fuck her into oblivion, when he seemed to read her mind. He pulled back and slid in again, nice and hard, and began to do it over and over, with burning groans, and an almost triumphal look on his face… though he continued to watch her eyes. His thrusts were firm and compelling, but not fast. And when he slid forward, he gave a little grind of his pelvis against hers, rubbing her clit with his body, something he'd never done before. Another storm started to spark within her, and she could feel orgasm on the rise again. She panted, she whispered "yes," she bit her lip, and waited for another explosion to take her over… and watched him, as intently as he watched her. She looked at him with absolute awe behind her eyes – she couldn't help it, because she was utterly astonished…

Here she was, in bed, in dim, romantic light, on her back, being _made love to_ in a basically prosaic, considerate, respectful way…

And it was _good._

God, it was good. It was so good, that…

…there it was, the second orgasm flooded her senses, and she tilted her head back, and cried out, while her thighs clamped his hips and her insides pulsed around his cock.

He didn't stop moving just because of this. In fact, the impish bit of him that wanted her as helpless as possible continued to thrust into her because he knew it would make her whimper and swear, and make her eyes water, and make her beg him to stop and give her respite…

But he didn't. And that was okay. He still smiled at her, and watched her soar down from her high. He just kept going, as though he was far from finished with her, or himself. He leaned down and kissed her heartily, with a lovely groan, then he kissed and nipped again at her neck, and the area behind her ears.

He whispered her name, he told her how amazing, how chuffing brilliant, and fucking hot she was. And eventually he told her he was going to make her come again. And he did. He leaned back on his haunches and thrust upwards into her until her eyes went crossed, and she cried out, and her body went into spasm for a third time. When she was finished, he brought her down again, like the skilled, self-disciplined lover that he was (or could be), and then planted his elbows on either side of her, and hissed in her ear, "I can't wait anymore."

"Then don't," she told him, resisting the urge to say something utterly filthy about what she wanted to happen next. Her body was still buzzing, and she wondered if another orgasm could be coaxed out of her, with his inevitable eruption deep inside of her body…

But alas, she felt spent. She simply laid there, let him plunge in and out, let herself twitch with the overwhelming sensation of it, and waited to feel him let go, and fill her.

And when he came, he announced himself (as he sometimes did, she knew) and gave a civilised, but intense groan. He grabbed her eyes again with his, and made her feel his cock throb over and over, as warm liquid flooded her insides. He looked at her, again, with a bit of vindication as he finished, then he gave the last few shuddering thrusts, pulled out, and fell on his side.

"Wow," she couldn't help but muse.

She hated herself for it, but realised it was warranted.

She had never before been able to feel fire for proper lovemaking. She had engaged in it, as a matter of course, in different relationships, because that's what one does…

…but this was the first time she felt the _wow_ afterwards, the sensation of buzzing, of excitement and euphoria, at the same time as feeling exhausted from the experience.

This was the first time, after a bout like this, when she hadn't wondered how in the hell anyone could stand to have sex this way time after time, after time. Because she now had her answer.

The answer was _love._

She loved him, and she had come to terms with that a while back. And with that, came a healthy dollop of lust. And, the Doctor represented her first foray into this depth of feeling…

So, she lay there beside him, panting, sweating, feeling surprised, satisfied and totally smitten.

And this realisation was going to make her confession so much harder.

* * *

 **Don't forget to leave a review! :-)**


	4. Chapter 4

**All right my friends, this is the thrilling, f***ed-up conclusion of "Used." But don't worry, you'll enjoy the ending.**

 **Speaking of enjoying, it should go without saying, this is sooooo NSFW. One reviewer called this story "decadent." Well, I would say that this chapter is the most "decadent" of them all!**

 **In Chapter 3, we learned that on Day 7, the Doctor and Martha were both feeling immensely guilty for what they had done to one another, and had decided separately to confess their sins. But the Doctor, unable to say what he felt he needed to say, decided to use the Herb, the coercion ritual and Light of Recall to make Martha remember everything, and he made love to her. This way, he thought, he won't be able to dodge her questions. Martha, however, as you recall from how all this intrigue began, was never under the influence of the Herb or the ritual. She had just been enjoying the sex, and pretending she couldn't remember.**

 **We also learned that on day 11, the two of them get involved in an unfortunate situation on the planet Hypotasso, involving a geyser that could not blow, because of blockage, which meant disaster for the planet. For some reason, all the talk of pent-up heat, building tension, and release of steam made Martha quite agitated. This ended with her storming off to calm down, and the Doctor punishing her for this, by making her "wait an extra night."**

 **What does this mean? How did we get from the remorse on day 7 to the cryptic bizarreness, and smug behavior on the part of the Doctor, on Day 11? Shall we find out?**

* * *

 **PART 4**

DAY 8

Sleep cocooned her, keeping her temporarily safe.

Safe from what? The light? The truth? Her own conscience? His wrath? Heartbreak? Loneliness? A ferocious, crippling regret?

Yes, all of that.

But none of that was occurring to her just now, because she was dreaming of a cornfield. The Doctor was in it somewhere, she knew, as was the TARDIS. But the field was vast, the corn was high and dense, and she was only five-foot-two. If she were to find either one of them, it would be just dumb luck. The thought of this was quite discouraging.

Suddenly, in the dream, she realised she was famished. And so, she stopped walking, and broke one ear of corn off its stalk. She held it in her hand with the distinct feeling that she really shouldn't have it. It didn't belong to her. Nevertheless, she peeled back the first layer of the green casing.

As she did, she heard herself groan, and she suddenly felt a little cold.

Then, she pulled back another layer of green, and the coldness persisted, and all at once, she realised she was nude. How curious. How did she become nude in this cornfield?

She pulled back another layer, and then another, and another. She became aware that not only was she cold and naked, but she was also feeling that telltale slickness between her thighs. _Oh my God – in a cornfield? What the hell is happening?_ She tried to run, but her feet became entangled in something, and when she looked down, she saw that it was blankets. She fell – and she seemed to fall for a long time, in extreme slow-motion, still peeling layers away from the cob of corn in her hand, down to the silk – and when she hit the ground, she heard _him_ groan, rather than herself.

"Doctor?" she said, looking around for him.

"Mm?" he groaned back, having registered her voice, but not seeming to care very much. She heard him, but couldn't yet see him.

She was still cold. And exposed.

And then the light in the sky became blindingly bright.

 _Oh, I see. I'm waking up._

And just like that, she unwrapped herself from slumber, had unpeeled the layers, and became slowly cognizant of the world around her…

She was naked, cold and in bed with her feet tangled in the sheets. Her body felt sore in key places, and also stretched, strained, and slippery in key places. There was a dry, groggy exhaustion that hung over her head – and _inside_ her head – like a deeply frozen fog.

The signs were all there: she'd had an eventful night. There had been a shag in her immediate past, and that was _the only_ thing that was currently clear. She could only hope it had been good, and that she hadn't been drunk, or something… although that would have been very unlike her.

She disengaged her feet from the blanket, and pulled it up to cover herself against the cold. She then sat up, looked about. She felt a bit disoriented, though the room she was in was familiar. And then she saw the candle on the nightstand.

 _The Light of Recall._

 _He wants me to remember._

And she did remember now. It all came flooding back in. This was _her_ bedroom, in the TARDIS. There had been the Crux Herb, and she had done a reprehensible thing. She had orchestrated three nights of what turned out to be rough, frenzied, blistering-hot, teeth-clenching, fingernail-splitting, shameless, reckless sex. After that, it had all culminated last night in something… quite new.

She looked to her left. There he was, lying on his side, facing away from her, the bottom half of him draped with a sheet.

"Doctor?" she said, just like in her dream.

"Mm?" he responded, again, just like in her dream. Though he did not speak any words, nor physically stir. It seemed to Martha that he must be just on the cusp of consciousness, perhaps climbing through the layers as she had…

But for the next few moments, it looked as though she had a rare head-start on him. She had a minute or two to assess her options, and decide how to proceed.

She lay back down now, to think.

After the terrifying business of the Doctor's near-confession the night before, and her total paralysis in the face of it, she now knew more plainly than ever that she could not allow him to go through the agony of a confession. She would not be able to bear the shame and pain in his eyes as he admitted to repeatedly violating her. It would destroy him to do it, and she couldn't watch. She _had_ to act first.

Again, she ran through scenarios of what she could say that didn't sound completely daft, especially as an opening line. Fortunately, the Doctor, in his trepidation, had set up this morning-after situation, which neither of them would be able to sweep under the rug.

And then, before she was ready (though she reckoned she would never be ready), he turned over and looked at her.

For a long moment, they just stared at one another, blinking, wondering, minds racing.

"Good morning," he decided to say, at last. His voice and face were impassive. There was no smile, no frown, no inflection.

"Good morning," she replied, with some relief.

Another long moment passed, and their eyes never left one another.

Again, he broke the silence. "How'd you sleep?"

"Well. Deeply," she answered. "The sleep of the sated."

He did give a little smile this time. "Glad to hear it."

"So… you're here," Martha began. It was a tentative way to open the door to the conversation they needed to have.

"I'm here," he sighed. "Is that okay?"

She took in a long breath of air, then let out a long exhale. This is it. Moment of truth. No going back now.

She let the words escape before she could change her mind.

"Of course it's okay. I'm just wondering why you decided to stay until morning this time."

He frowned. "What?"

"What made you spend the night this time? You could have gone. It would have been okay."

"Wait, wait, wait," he said, sitting up. " _This time_?"

"Yeah," she answered, following suit, sitting up, clutching the sheet to her chest.

He continued to frown at her, in confusion. "This time?" After a long pause, he asked, "So, from your point of view, this has happened before? I mean, not _this_ , this… this morning-after thing, but…"

"Actually having the sex that leads up to this morning-after thing? Yeah, last night was not the first time." She was impressed (and a little frightened) by her own calmness.

He blinked. "Not the first time. You _do_ mean, that last night was not the first time _with me,_ right? For us. For you and me together."

"Right."

His jaw dropped, and he studied her with dread and worry all over his face.

"You know?" he whispered, at last, his voice breaking.

"Yes, but Doctor, listen…"

"You… _know_?"

"Doctor…"

"No, wait. Do you _know_ , or do you _remember?_ "

"Pardon?"

"I mean, do you know what I did because… I dunno, because you found the herb or something, or because one of the priests of Dimin got in touch with you? Or do you know because you remember it?"

"I remember," she confessed, looking down at her lap.

"Everything?"

"Everything."

"So, the details. Exactly what we did."

"Yes. It's all quite vivid."

He put both hands in his hair in total despair, and tears filled his eyes. "Oh, my God! How… what… I'm so… Martha, oh my God…"

Watching him fumble for what to say next, whether to ask how the hell it happened, or whether first to offer a lame apology, she realised that she was, essentially, doing what she promised herself she wouldn't: allowing him to wade through the confession first. Though, she _had_ tried to stop him talking a couple of times, and he had interrupted.

Before she could put a lid on him, though, he began to speak in the machine-gun-like way that he does. "Look, Martha… whoa, you've got me completely blindsided. I mean, you've probably worked out already, I was planning to tell you this morning… actually, I was planning to tell you last night, and I sort of had a plan and a speech prepared, but now that I know you already know, I have no idea what to say."

"You don't have to say anything, Doctor, because…"

"Having you _know_ was one thing," he continued, getting up out of bed. He went on talking as he walked about and located his clothing and pulled on his pants, pyjama bottoms, and t-shirt. "But talking to you like this, looking you in the eye – even though I'm not looking you in the eye just now – and having you _remember_ how… just, _depraved_ it was, and how… ugh, the things that came out of me… well, not literally what came out of me... No, I mean, the _desires_ that came out of my head, out of my mouth! Now you know the things I want. You know what I _do_ and say and take when I think no-one will know! And _I_ know what I do and say when I think no-one will know!"

"Please stop…"

"Blimey, am I really that guy? Am I really the sort of bloke, underneath it all, who orders you to your knees and then…"

He looked at her, now clothed, panting, with total panic in on his face. She knew what he was thinking about and remembering, and momentarily, she was paralysed because she was remembering it too. She briefly relived the few moments, night before last, when he'd shoved his cock down her throat over and over again, with no regard for how it might be received, and how her eyes had watered and nearly rolled back in her head, and she'd moaned with the sheer wantonness, the deliciousness of it…

Again, he buried both hands in his hair, and cried, "Ugh! No!"

"What?"

"I'm remembering it," he told her, shouting. "And Rassilon help me, I _like_ the memory! It gets me all… you know. And even more disgustingly, I know, as I look at you, that you remember it too!"

"Yeah, but…"

"I mean, not that _that_ is the worst part of all this, the worst part, of course, is what I've done to you," he said, now rather softly, standing at the side of the bed, looking defeated. "What I've put you through. Martha, I drugged you, and used, well, basically _magic_ on you. I used... you."

"No…"

"I had sex with you while you were compliant to the magic, thinking you would never know. And it wasn't just sex, but, like… I worked out desires and fantasies on you that I barely knew I had. I had no idea I was so… domineering. Well, I guess it makes a kind of sense if you think about what my life's been like but… wait, this isn't about me. It's about you, and what you had to endure."

"What I had to _endure?_ Doctor, do you hear yourself?"

He ignored her comment. "What did that spell do to you, like force you into submission _and_ silence? Or else, why didn't you say anything to me? Or anyone else?"

"I'm glad you asked, that, Doctor. I've been trying to talk to you, so that I can say…"

"No, don't forgive me. Don't let me off," he demanded, in a mad pace about the room. "I'm a cad. No, I'm a criminal, that's what I am! I'm a… well, there's really only one word for it, isn't there? What I did without your consent, it makes me a…"

"Doctor! Stop!" she shouted. This time, it actually got his attention. "Don't you dare finish that sentence!"

He stopped, stood there, studying her quizzically, while she got out of bed herself now, and stalked about, looking for the night shirt he'd pulled off her and discarded. She found it, and put it on. She now stood, hands on hips, looking at him with exasperation.

"You talk too much, do you know that?" she asked him.

"It's been called to my attention."

She let a burst of air out through her lips, and then practically shouted, "I am trying to keep you from the guilt you're feeling, trying to make sure you don't have to go through the horror of _telling me_ and apologizing and all that rubbish, but you did it anyway! My God, must you insist on _soliloquising_ at every turn? Are you even listening to me?"

"I am now," he said, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry. Please, say what you need to say."

"What I wanted to say, like five minutes ago, is that this whole thing is my fault," she said. "And if you had let me speak first, before asking five hundred questions, you could have saved yourself a hell of a lot of time and angst!"

There was a silence that hung in the air of the bedroom, like an oppressive black smoke.

"How do you mean, it's your fault?" he asked.

She sighed. Her stomach did flips. She began to tremble a bit.

"Look in that closet," she instructed him, gesturing to the door, just to his right.

He opened the door.

"There's a loose panel in the back, behind my purple dress. Do you see it?

He disappeared into her closet, and said, "Yeah, I see it. Should I remove the panel?

"Yes. Look inside."

She heard rustling, and then the Doctor emerged with a pillowcase, with some leaves peeking out the top. "What is this?" he asked, very softly.

"You know what it is."

He crouched, and dumped a few of the Crux Herb leaves out of the pillowcase onto the floor, and examined them. "These are real."

She came round the bed slowly, and sat down on the edge of it, near him. Then she said, "Yes."

"How did you get these?"

"I switched them out for maple leaves when you weren't looking, and _before_ you switched them out when you thought I wasn't looking."

He remained crouched, thinking about the logistics of it. "When we were in Alaska?"

"No, before that. Brewsdoon."

"Hm," he said, barely audibly. Then, a pause. "So, I've been trying to entrance you with… maple leaves?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"And you've heard every word I've said to you, when I thought you were asleep, and I was doing my stupid ritual?"

"Yes."

He pulled his hand down over his face and swore. Then he stared off into space for just a moment, and sputtered, "So that… wait, so… if you've got the…" then he gave up, and sighed. When his voice came out this time, it was gravelly, and low. "Martha, you've just said this whole thing was your fault."

"I have."

"And I've just learned that you have a stash of Crux Herb in your closet."

"You have."

He stood up, and looked down on her, the frown having grown more profound. He retained the rumble in his voice, and asked, "Are you going to wait for me to ask all the questions, or are you going to explain yourself, Miss Jones, and tell me what I need to know?"

She forced herself to look up, and meet his eyes. "It was our second day on Dimin. Remember? We went into covert ops with the Tesku King. I was injured and you insisted that I not continue."

"Yeah, I remember. It was less than a week ago."

"Well, I spent part of that day in the cloister with the priests, and one of them asked me if I'd like to learn more about the herb."

"And you learned about the Light of Recall that day, didn't you?"

"Yes," she confessed, now unable to meet the anger in his gaze. There was a long, long, tense interval during which his breathing was the only thing that could be heard in the room. His ragged, livid breathing… Martha felt he might spit fire, the next time he opened his mouth. She found that she didn't really have anything else to say. The way this had all transpired, the Doctor had put two and two together… what could she tell him that he hadn't worked out? So, she asked, "Do I really need to tell you what I've done? Is there anything I can say, other than, _I'm sorry?_ "

Almost inaudibly, seething, he said, "You made me believe…"

"Ugh, I hate myself," she spat. "I was being self-centred and greedy. I had tunnel-vision. All I could think about at the time was how much I wanted…"

In the lull that followed, the Doctor asked, harshly, "What? Sex? Power? Vindication?"

"No," she snapped back, just as harshly. "I was thinking of how much I wanted _you_. I'd got tired of waiting. I'd got tired of you looking through me."

"I do not look through you," he whispered.

"Yeah, you do. And it hurts. Had enough of it," she pouted. Then she corrected herself. "But, I know it still doesn't excuse what I did."

He stuffed the herbs back into the pillow case, then tossed the whole bundle back into the closet. He then kicked the door shut, hard enough that it hurt Martha's ears.

"All that stuff you said to me, about having done things without consent," she said, soldiering on. "About being a criminal, about putting me through hell… all of that applies to me. I'm sorry I violated you… both your _person_ and your trust. I imagine you feel very used and somewhat confused right now…"

Again, he cursed, this time loudly. Then, "You don't get it!" he practically screamed at her. "You're missing the bloody point!"

"Am I? Please tell me what I'm not seeing."

He walked to the end of the room and back. Then he stopped in front of her, hands on his hips. "Okay, so, yeah… you've been fancying me, apparently for some time, and frankly Martha, I've known it. I've known, and I'm sorry if I've not been the quickest to address it, or come round to it, but you know what? I've got a few things on my mind. Not to mention, I'm raw, I'm hurting, I'm a bloody emotional battering ram! So sue me, I've got baggage. So, you get sick of waiting, and lay the whammy on me so I'll give you what you want. Express shagging – no waiting."

"Yeah."

"I get it. I mean, it's still kind of evil, but I get it. And this, I could live with, all right?" he said. "I could deal with just being roofied and taken-advantage-of. Honestly, it's not the first time."

"Oh."

His voice was forceful, mounting. "What I cannot understand, Martha, what I cannot fathom is this: why did you let me think it was _me_ all along? Why not just have your way with me, and let the amnesiac affect take over? Why not do to me what I thought I was doing to you? Why make me believe that I'd violated you in the worst way a person can, and let me feel the entire violent hurricane of remorse that comes with it? Why give me the self-hatred? Do you not think I've got enough goddamn guilt in my life as it is?"

By the end of this, he was properly shouting, and his face was very near hers.

"No, I think you've got enough guilt to bring down the cosmos."

"Then why, Martha?"

She looked up at him. "I guess… I wanted you to want me. All the time. Not just at night when you've lost resolve, and you're five seconds away from fucking me. I wanted you to look at me in the morning, and be absolutely consumed with thoughts of me… moaning, writhing, begging you to…" she stopped short, because she could see the look on his face had changed. And like before, she knew without asking that the two of them were both re-experiencing an episode from their depraved time together. "It was selfish, I know, considering the by-product of all of that."

She spoke steadily, but the memories flooding her were vivid and luscious and made her throb.

He actually closed his eyes for a few moments, gritted his teeth, and breathed steadily, as though trying (and perhaps failing) to get control. She wondered at precisely which naughty episode was currently playing behind his eyelids.

He swallowed hard, and then opened his eyes. With some of the anger having left his voice, he said, "Well, I'll say this for you: you are inventive. And savage."

"Mm?"

"The things you had me doing…" he said, barely moving his lips.

"Oh, erm, actually, that bit wasn't me. In my incantation, I instructed you to awaken any dormant lusts, and fill your senses with me, and only me. I told you..." she gulped. "...I loved you, and needed to be yours. I gave you a semi-erotic dream..."

"Oh, yeah, that..."

"But as for what to do with me… that was all you."

His eyebrows raised, skeptically. "Really? That really was me?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes, Doctor."

"All of it? Even the chair? Your sore arm?"

"Even that."

There was another long silence while he took it in.

Something seemed to change in him then. His face went from a hit of disbelief to confusion, to anger, to knowing… cunning.

 _Uh-oh._

His eyes slid toward hers, and he said, some of the hardness back in his voice, "I'm a bit addled by this news."

"I see that."

"But don't think I'm through with you yet."

She gulped. "All right."

"You brought out some of the worst in me, Martha."

"I know. That was the point," she told him, meekly.

He chuckled bitterly. "And you loved it, didn't you? The worst in me... you absolutely reveled in it."

"Yes. I did."

"Stand up," he ordered her.

She obeyed.

He moved in very close – so close that she could feel the fabric of his tee-shirt brushing lightly against her arms.

In a hushed tone, he said to her, "You made me call up some _nasty_ desires from the very depths of my subconscious. I was rough with you, selfish, totally inconsiderate. I ordered you around and treated you like a sex slave. I even hurt you a few times. Some of that should have scared you, Martha Jones."

She nodded in agreement. "Maybe so."

"But it didn't," he continued, still hushed, hissing like a snake. He leaned to one side and placed his lips just millimetres from her ear, and said, "It made you wet."

This statement shocked her, with its lasciviousness, its callback to the very acts that had caused the conflict here. A few moments ago he was red with anger. He still was, presumably, but now…

With his naughty words, he reached out and very lightly touched her fingertips with his.

"Yes," she whispered in response to his declaration, practically choking on the word.

He smiled. "Yes. It made you wet, and slick like silk, and made you spread your legs and beg."

"Yes."

"Yes," he echoed, still smiling wantonly. "And the harder I fucked you, the more you begged. The rougher it got, the harder you got off on it."

"Yes," she agreed again, now unable to breathe, and unsure how to proceed.

"Mm," he moaned, then took a step closer. To her surprise, she could now feel that his cock was hard, and pressing against her. He took hold of her bum with one hand, and squeezed, rather violently. She squeaked with the mild pain. "You liked it when I hurt you."

"Yes," she croaked, helplessly.

"You liked it when I _used_ you."

"Yes."

His voice became almost undetectable now, and again his lips were millimetres from her ear. "I ordered you to pleasure me… ordered you like a bloody servant, to literally bend to my whim, just so that I could shoot off inside you, fill up your cunt or your throat. And you, Martha Jones, you came like a teapot boiling over. Hot and wet and bursting all over."

She could not respond, but to close her eyes, and steady her breathing.

"Isn't that so, Martha? Tell the truth."

"Yes," she confessed. "All of it."

"Well, not anymore," he told her, slightly louder, but still quite smoky.

"I understand."

"Turn around and put your hands on the bed."

"I'm sorry?"

"You heard me," he said to her, with venom in his voice, extracting his cock from underneath his waistband.

Confused, she turned around, and did as he had instructed.

"Better start thinking about something very unsexy, Miss Jones," he said, before proceeding.

* * *

DAY 10

Martha was still doing penance for her transgression. Though tonight, thank Heaven, was the final night. She was a bundle of nerves almost all the time now – especially at this time of day. But she consoled herself tonight with the knowledge that tomorrow, it would all come crashing down, and she could be free again. She could breathe again, feel like herself again, if she could just _get through tonight_.

She was not permitted to be alone, except when she needed the toilet – even in the shower, which was a special kind of torture. And so, she was not, indeed, alone. She and the Doctor stood side-by-side at the double vanity sinks attached to his bedroom, and they brushed their teeth like civilised individuals, about to retire to bed for the night.

And why not? It had been a relatively normal day… why wouldn't they engage in a relatively normal night-time ritual? They chatted about the systematic deletion of "outer space spam" they were now receiving, and the Doctor mused over whether he could design some software to weed out the unneeded rubbish coming in.

"Well, if your average human computer nerd can figure it out, then you certainly can," she said, just after spitting toothpaste into the sink.

"Not that simple," he said, splashing cold water on his face. He wiped it with a towel. "It's not e-mails landing in an inbox. It's communication of all sorts, myriad formats, firing across us, from literally all over the universe. I mean, it could be done, but it would be nothing like the sort of thing that your company's IT guy might do on Earth."

"You'll work it out if you need to," she said, with an assured smile.

"Yeah," he said, absently. Then he focused on her. "Well, ready for bed?"

Her whole body tensed, and her blood ran both hot and cold at the same time. "Always ready," she said, with fake enthusiasm. "You know I am."

"Not _too_ ready, I hope," he teased.

"I hope so too," she muttered, sighing with resignation.

"Why don't you go in there, take off your robe, stand next to the bed, and wait for me?"

"I thought…"

"I know," he said, smugly. "You won't be alone long enough to accomplish anything."

"Fine," she said flatly, doing as he asked.

She walked into the very large bedroom and shrugged off her terrycloth bathrobe, which left her completely naked. She she laid it over the back of a chic, boxy black armchair.

A few moments later, the Doctor switched off the vanity lights, and entered the room, still wearing his robe. The lights were dim and perfect, there was tension in the air…

…and Martha cursed. She didn't know if she relished in this, or fucking hated it.

A bit of both, of course.

He walked toward her, and took one of her cheeks in his hand, spreading his fingers over her neck. As he did this, he looked her over hungrily, then kissed her heartily, plunging his tongue into her mouth as though he owned it.

"You are gorgeous. Absolutely mouthwatering, do you know that?" he said to her, pulling away.

She didn't answer.

He fell to his knees in front of her and licked her navel, and she took in a sharp breath, and held it. He took her bum in both hands, squeezed hard enough to hurt, and began licking, kissing and biting his way across her silky brown abdomen.

The pain and the _waiting_ made her _want_. It made her prickle all over, and want to fall on the bed behind her and writhe like a daemon…

 _His mouth is two inches away from my clit. God, I hope he doesn't lick it. Please don't, please don't, please don't…_

But he did. Just once. And then he chuckled wickedly.

A bolt of lightning seemed to surge through her, and she clenched her teeth, closed her eyes, and tried to think of the day when her neighbourhood girls' football league lost the local tournament, when she was eight. She thought of the names of the two girls who had scored goals, and of the five who had attempted to do so, unsuccessfully. She tried to remember what each girl's mum tended to bring for snack, when it was their turn.

"How does that feel?" he asked her, with a husky voice.

"Fuck off," she answered.

He chuckled again, and pressed two fingers into the swollen, slippery folds between her thighs, and felt everything about her hunger… the hot fluid, the desperate pulsating, the clit as hard as a pebble.

Her vision blurred.

 _Fiona Winterman scored the first goal that day…_

He pushed the two fingers properly inside of her, and lazily moved them in and out.

 _Gemma Chowdhury scored the second. Or was it Rachel Bingham?_

The Doctor moaned a bit as he felt how ready she was, and whispered, "Good girl. Haven't lost you yet."

"I'm not lost…" she whispered.

"Good. Because I need you on your hands and knees," he commanded. Then he got to his feet, and leaned so close she could feel the heat from his skin, and growled, "You're going to make me come in your mouth."

The words made her flush all over…

 _It was definitely Gemma Chowdhury – I remember her father congratulating her later on, with that accent of his._

"How does that strike you, Miss Jones?" he asked, after she didn't react for a few moments.

"Fine," she answered, flatly, struggling to keep her voice, and her desire, even. "It strikes me fine."

He shed his robe, took her hand and led her over to the bed, then lay down with his head on a pillow.

She fixed her eyes on the long, hard, purple-tipped rod jutting up from his body, and licked her lips. She positioned herself on her hands and knees beside him, grasped the base of his shaft with one hand, and then engulfed his cock with her whole mouth. He moaned with total abandon, as did she, when she felt his distended, pulsating flesh hit the back of her throat, and a frisson of pure primal voracity came over her… before she remembered herself.

 _Damn it! Sarah Okubo took a shot at the goal_. _Maybe even two or three._

And she set herself to sucking him off. She would have liked to give herself over to the act, the sensations, the sound and throbbing of his body in pleasure. But she couldn't. It would mean disaster.

And so, she would have liked to completely vacate herself, and think only of that football match, but she couldn't quite do it. The taste and feel of him sliding in and out of her mouth was too demanding. The way he thrust his hips up and down while he moaned her name, and a few delectable obscenities… it forced her to pay attention.

"Your mouth is like an inferno... seems made for doing this," he managed, in the throes of pleasure. Then he moaned, "I could stay buried in it forever…"

 _Maisie Fitzwilliam tried for a goal, but missed it by a mile… ohhh, it hurts so good when he tangles his fingers in my hair and pulls hard…_

Her head bobbed on his cock, her mouth tightened and loosened, her tongue swirled around the head, and every now and then, he took in a hiss of air and let it out with an expletive.

"Jesus, you're good at this," he croaked, holding her head in place for a moment while he rubbed the head of his cock against the opening of her throat. "You suck like you love it. Do you love it, Martha?"

He spoke breathlessly, with his teeth clenched… depravity in his eyes and voice.

Her eyes jetted up, and found his looking back at her with penetrating lust. He let the pressure off her head, and she scraped her teeth against his shaft on the way back up, just enough to make him groan hard, and nearly hit the ceiling.

 _I love him, I love this, I love this goddamn punishment, I love knowing he's going to shoot into my mouth any moment now… damn it! I think Charlotte Halsey tried a couple of times to score, and got really close once._

His breathing, and his thrusts between her lips became concentrated and rhythmic. His right hand gripped her head tight, and he began to warn her (threaten her?) that he was going to come hard, and she'd better be ready to swallow it all…

…and in his zeal, in his passion and haste and blinded filthiness, his left hand found its way between her legs once again.

She could feel him on the home stretch, as they say, _using_ her mouth, grinding with his pelvis, his groans becoming urgent. But she could now also feel three of his fingers buried inside of her, and his palm pressed against her clit.

 _Shit! I am never going to survive this…_

Her hips lurched forward, to engage with his hand…

 _No! Vicki Winn was the girl who pretty much did score, but her goal was disqualified because of unsportsmanlike behaviour, and I'm just going to grind on his hand, let those fingers fuck me and ride this thing into oblivion… I've literally never wanted anything this badly in my life._

 _Annie Baxter's mum was the one who used to bring the bloody carrot sticks. Everyone dreaded that._

Martha heard a loud groan, felt a painful tightening of the hair on the back of her head, and within a split second, her mouth was filled with a salty, creamy fluid, accompanied by wonderful, life-blood pulses from his spurting cock. She moaned with the decadent blast of pure lust it gave her, and fought hard not to let her pelvis surge forward into defeat.

She moaned even louder when the second shot of come hit her tongue, and the Doctor's groan was even more tense, and his fingers plunged tighter and deeper into her opening.

 _No-one liked when my mum brought orange slices either, though._

When the third wave arrived, she was barely ready for it, but swallowed what he gave her, with total greed. Finally, he grunted, pulled his fingers out of her, and put them in his mouth for a few moments to suck. At this, he moaned as well…

 _Our favourite snack, of course, was ice cream, which came with those little wooden paddles that functioned as spoons._

The Doctor panted, and again, complimented her skill. She looked at him with venom in her eyes, as her body shook all over. She lay down next to him, and listened to his satisfied breathing, which made her tremble even harder, and want to scream bloody murder.

She half-wished someone would tie her hands behind her back just now. She reckoned he might not mind it, if she asked nicely…

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Fuck off."

Again, he chuckled at this reaction. Then he said, "No really."

"How do you think I feel, you prat?"

"Okay, well… I might as well warn you now, I'm far from done with you, Miss Jones."

"Fantastic."

He turned over, dipped his head, and licked her distended nipple. "You're going to do all of that again in a bit."

"Again?"

"Yes," he said. "I'm definitely feeling worked-up tonight."

"Oh, God," she breathed, both relishing and dreading the prospect of having more of his cock in her mouth, listening to more of his moans, swallowing more of his come…

… _but it's just for tonight. Tomorrow, I can stop holding back. Tomorrow, tomorrow…_

* * *

DAY 12

The two of them lay panting, staring with blurred vision at the ceiling of the Doctor's bedroom.

They took a bit of time to catch their breath, and then, the Doctor finally asked, "So, how many was that?"

She laughed, partly at the question, and partly because of the reeling sensation she still felt, the upheaval of pleasure and emotion and _purging_ he'd given her. "Six, I think. Though I don't know for sure… I kind of lost count after four. My brain was a bit addled."

"Hm, six," he said, and she couldn't see his face, but she was sure that she could _hear_ the smirk. "And I wasn't even trying that hard."

"You didn't have to."

"And… how do you feel?" he asked, expecting, at last, an answer other than _fuck off._

She took a while to answer this time, much to his surprise. "To be honest, part of me still hates your guts. But that's the id in me, who's still a bit traumatised."

"That's actually quite eloquent. Your id is traumatised."

"Of course it is. You forced me to keep it locked in a box for four days!"

"Well, your id had it coming."

"I suppose it did," she sighed. "It also liked being in the box, just a little."

"I suspected as much," he said, smugly.

A pause, then, "But that's my id. And you and I, we just went a long way toward its recovery. The rest of me feels tingly and sated, and is still hopelessly in love with you – frenzied and addicted.

"I see," he commented, almost in singsong fashion.

"You?"

"How do I feel? Much the same."

"Really?" she asked her heart beating a mile a minute.

"Yeah. Still holding on to a slight bit of trauma from thinking I'd been such a cad to you. But mostly, I feel… well, I'll use your words: frenzied and addicted."

"Wow," she said, thinking of the implications of this. She turned over on her side and rested her head in her hand. "So, then, would you really have left me if I'd broken the rules at some point over the past four days?"

He turned over on his side as well, and stroked her arm with two fingers as he asked, in low tones, "You mean, if you'd been so unscrupulous as to dare to allow yourself an orgasm?"

His touch and his words gave her a powerful frisson, and she didn't think it was possible, but she was actually feeling _aroused_ again, even after the exhausting bout they'd just had.

"Yes," she answered, in equally honeyed tones. "If four nights of rough, demeaning, _fantastic_ sex with you had done what it was supposed to do, and given me pleasure I couldn't contain?"

"Well, I think you almost did break the rules," he challenged. "Or am I imagining things?"

"Of course I almost did," she said. "Like a thousand times! A million times!"

"I just mean, yesterday afternoon, after the explosive adventure with the geyser," he said. "You stole a few minutes on your own, did you not?"

"I did _not_ almost break the rules then."

"If you say so," he chuckled.

"I didn't! I went into the TARDIS to meditate."

"I know but it was, after a different fashion, a violation of the rules. You were not permitted to be alone. You could have used your fingers at any time, or perhaps just moved precisely the right way in your jeans…"

"I know why, Doctor," she told him. "I know why I needed constant supervision. If you wanted me to refrain from orgasm to punish me, you were right to do it. I'd have been a fiend in your absence. All that fucking, and no outlet… I wouldn't have been able to stop myself, if you'd left me to my own devices. Especially after that first night."

"The first night was the hardest?" he asked with a little smile.

"Yes."

"What about that morning, when you confessed what you'd done and I told you to put your hands on the bed and think unsexy thoughts?"

"I was stunned then," she explained, quietly. "Too confused to be in the moment. I could feel you inside me and behind me, pounding in and out. I heard you order me to keep myself in check, and I felt you come, but I didn't know what it meant. But that night… I knew the game. I rather _liked_ the idea of the game, to be honest, but I hadn't learned how to quell the id yet."

"Not that you ever fully learned," he interrupted.

"No-one ever fully learns," she dismissed. "And then, you caught me off-guard, which I thought was exceedingly unfair!"

"I never said it would be fair," he said. "I watched you lean over the kitchen table to clear it, and I fancied a shag. It wasn't the first time I'd experienced that impulse, Martha, it was just the first time I'd had the chance to actually do it."

"Yeah, well… I hadn't had time to think, or to plan a strategy, or meditate, find my Zen or whatever. Suddenly, I'm just there, sitting on the table with my legs spread, and you're buried inside me, and the whole thing is hot as hell, and with every thrust, I have to figure out how to hold back! Every time you advance, I have to retreat, when all I want to do advance right along with you."

"Well, that little tryst on the table didn't last very long, as I recall…"

"No, but it didn't matter! You know where I live now, Doctor. You ordered me up onto the table, basically ripped off my jeans and knickers without asking, then held my hands down while you gave me a quick, dirty shag that rattled the dishes and destabilized the table. You _knew_ what that would do to me."

"I suppose I did," he said. "But to be honest, I wasn't thinking of you. That was the whole point. I wanted it, so I took it. It's not my fault that you and I both get off on the same thing."

"Hm," she sighed. "I suppose in the long run, it's a fortunate coincidence."

"In the long run, yes," he said. Then, his tone changed as he commented, "Funny, I'd have thought that the second night would have been the worst for you. And the best, in its way."

"Well, it _was_ a bit of a relief that you chose not to put me through showering together, _and_ a tumble later on."

"I can be an efficient man, at times."

"Truth be told, the shower tile was cold. Being pressed against it gave me something to think about, other than what nasty things you were doing to me. Though I thought about that plenty."

"I'll just bet you did."

"Thought about it later, too," she said. Then she shifted, as a wave of arousal overtook her again. "Thinking about it now."

"Ever so glad to hear it," he whispered, lightly brushing a strand of hair out of her face.

The juxtaposition of this gentleness, versus his coarseness in the memory currently playing in her mind was intoxicating.

And a bit bizarre, as well. She wondered, "What, did you just think, _hey, we've got soap… why not?_ "

"Basically."

"I'll admit, that was a first for me," she said, sheepishly casting her eyes down to the sheet beneath her.

"I give people a lot of _firsts_ ," he quipped. "Though, usually, it has to do with teleportation, dimensional transcendence, and time travel."

She sighed heavily. "I'll agree, you'd given me a lot of _firsts_ even before all this began. Including how I feel when I look at you."

He smiled. "Thank you."

" _That_ was one thing that never changed throughout, though… generally speaking, when you've touched me innocuously before, I haven't wanted to explode for real. But, these past few days…"

"Frenzied and addicted," he finished, running his fingers lightly over her lips.

"Totally. It got to the point where every time you touched me, in fact, I almost…" She swallowed hard.

He ran his fingers gently over her collar bone, and then down her chest to cup her breast. "Came?" he asked, finishing her thought.

She nodded as he squeezed, and flames reappeared in her nether regions, with a vengeance.

"Mm. How about now?"

"As I said, my id is still not recovered entirely, from the raw treatment it received."

He slid his fingers down over her stomach, and fondled her navel. "Well, Martha, to answer your question… I might have left you, if you'd broken the rules. If you had allowed your id what it wanted, I'd have been cross with you."

"Yeah?" she breathed.

He slid his fingers between her legs, and felt not only _her_ slippery fluids, but his own. It was a palpable reminder of the depravity of the past couple of weeks – both real and imagined, both consensual and not.

He loved it.

"Yeah," he echoed, now rubbing her clit. "But I'd never be able to keep away from you."

"You wouldn't?"

"Not a chance," he told her. "I've known it for quite some time. I knew it when I first realised that the magic had worn off, and all I wanted, still, was you. You, and the terrible, wonderful things that you crave. That we both crave."

"Oh…" she said, beginning to unravel… again.

"I even knew it last night when I was punishing you for taking those few minutes alone," he mused, watching her eyes slide shut, and her mouth go slack. "Even when I told you to wait another night before you could finally come, and you called me a bloody maggot… I loved the rancor in your voice."

"You laughed."

"I was drunk with power. A bit giddy. But I loved the strength in you, as well as the desire, the debauchery just beneath the surface, the reason why we were there at all, threatening to release itself… it was all so delicious.."

"Is that why you…" she panted, took a pause, swallowed, and then continued, "…tied me down?"

"Yes, indeed," he answered easily. "I knew you'd love it, and therefore hate it. I knew that under normal circumstances, you'd explode like that geyser we saw yesterday… but you didn't. You looked me in the eye and kept the eruption locked down, even while I was emptying myself inside you."

"You tested me."

"A hell of a lot, Martha," he confirmed. His voice dropped, and became intimate, his fingers now working quite fast on her clit. She was listening, though, in spite of the fact that her body was in overdrive. "But the point is, even if you'd failed the test, I still knew, every moment I was with you, that even if you couldn't follow the rules, I could never _not_ be with you."

"You couldn't…"

"Best I could do would be to scare you for a while, but what would be the point? More fun to extend the punishment, eh?"

"Right, right…"

"But no punishment now, love," he lulled. "Give yourself over. Let me watch your face again, you amazing, insatiable creature."

And that was it. She gave a high grunt, and climaxed for the seventh time that night, pressing her hand against his, as she rode the throbs and the intoxication into total satisfaction.

Satisfaction… for now.

* * *

 **Don't be silent! Tell me your thoughts! And thank you so much for reading!**


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